Welcome to Gaia! ::

still believe in pudge? : P

I just finished reading all of your story you've got posted and I must say, this is amazing~ I really like it and keep up the good work!

I know, I know: FINALLY.

Just read.


20

Nana’s present arrived in the mail a few days later: a warm, soft blanket in faded blues and whites, sent with a card and her love. I gave it to Kahme to keep under the bed with her; it was huge and warm, and she loved it. Then I sent by return mail a long thank-you letter, which had long ago been agreed to be a good-enough present--Nana insisted that she had everything she wanted except me in her life, and I needn’t waste time and money giving her anything else. I wanted to send it, but Dad kept the stamps locked up (in case I decided to write a letter to someone who could ruin everything) and when I asked him politely if he would send it for me, he took the letter but in all likeliness wouldn’t touch it again. I got it back from his study when I cleaned it next and bought a stamp myself.

After that I enjoyed the rest of the holiday with Kahme, my one chance to play in the new snow all day and goof off in between. We spent our days exploring the snow-muffled world, which we had almost entirely to ourselves, and fighting and playing fiercely in my yard and, when we ran out of snow, in vacant lots, the park, other people’s unused snow piles. There were a few neighborhoods that were devoid of small children and gangs (who usually didn’t come out in cold weather anyway), mostly filled with elderly people or single individuals. In these no one used their snow; they were inside warming up by a fire or watching winter specials on TV. We were the only humanity; the animals were asleep, the people had their curtains closed, the only signs of life were Kahme and I and the one truck that rumbled through every street in town, depositing salt on the road to melt the ice.

After that Kahme made cookies, and I made hot cocoa, and we’d curl up and watch a movie. Or, if Dad was home, we’d take it to a place nearby, a little restaurant that offered hot food and a respite from the cold, and eat there. Then it was back into the snow, or back home to do chores before Dad yelled at me. Mostly he was gone, somewhere drinking with a friend; if not, he was wrapped in a blanket on the couch or asleep upstairs. He was a mess during Christmas holidays.

Then all too soon, it was time for school. The last Sunday of break, I gave Kahme specific instructions: she could play, but only for a couple of hours at a time. Whenever she got cold or hungry, she was to get back into my room and take off her wet clothes, place them on a towel just by the window. Then she could take a bath, curl up in my bed, or eat some of the food I hid under the bed for her, stuff that wouldn’t start to smell, like chips or fruit, just a snack. She couldn’t come out, not even if Dad was gone. I’d bring her some food when I got home.

This system worked fairly well for another week, until Dad was back at work; then everything commenced as it had before. With one tiny exception that changed almost everything: she knew.

So when life proceeded as normal, and normal included me getting beaten up at least once a week, things started to become…not so normal. In a way that I didn’t like much.

For instance, if I came to bed with a black eye, a limp, or a sore stomach, Kahme would take no lies about gangs at school or tripping or falling down the stairs. She knew immediately what had happened, and for a time, she couldn’t stop herself from freaking out and starting to cry. I tried to convince her that this was normal, I would be okay, but that only made it worse. Once again, she was not crying because I was hurt, but because I had been and would continue to be hurt, and I wasn’t ever going to try and stop it. I had to make her swear again and again that she wouldn’t tell anyone or even come close, I warned her what would happen to me; it made her even more upset, but she always agreed. That made me feel much better; she would probably keep her promise, and I knew she couldn’t do much on her own. The only problem was if she got hurt trying.

It was a shaky truce, but we both kept our sides. I had warned her as gently as I could that if she tried to ruin everything, she’d have to leave for good; but I wanted her around, so I gave her everything she wanted and needed, did as much as I could for her. In exchange, she after a time stopped freaking every time I got a bruise. She just gave me this sad, hopeless look that was just as bad, but more easily ignored.

There was one more thing that was different, and I noticed it the minute I walked into my History class: there was a new girl.

But not just any new girl. Victoria Hinderman.

Victoria freaking Hinderman.

Good Lord, was the only thing I could think of when I first saw her. Good Lord. Good f--ing Lord.

She was beautiful. Angelic. Perfect. But not in a way I’d ever seen before. She had graceful, queenly features, she wore no makeup, she didn’t need to, and her hair was not swinging down like any other girl’s when they tried to look pretty, but swept back, a few locks forming bangs that framed her beautiful ivory face and brought out her dark, piercing eyes. She wore simple, dark jeans and a loose white shirt that hinted subtly at hourglass curves, that left a single seductive patch of her shoulder bare, that gave her pale skin a tone that was not iridescent white like mine, but rather a soft, delicate cream. Her feet were tiny in their plain black snow boots.

I stared and stared and stared at her until someone shoved me out of the way of the door. Then I flushed and kept my eyes down, hurrying the back way to my seat so she wouldn’t see me. I threw my stuff down at the very back corner, my usual seat, and rested my chin in my hands, ready and willing to observe her again.

She was seated at the front, where no one usually wanted to be, and not because she had to, either. One hand was resting neatly on her desk, a soft white long-fingered hand with beautiful shell-pink nails. The other was curled against the side of her face, supporting her head as she stared dreamily at the whiteboard, but not as if she was interested in it; rather, she was watching the air in front of it, as if thousands of lovely dreams were playing before her eyes that only she could see. I knew that look, and on her face it looked like perfection embodied, the very picture of wonder and beauty.

Her clothes were nothing special, but they seemed made for her, deeply affected by her aura of perfection and therefore perfect as well. Her backpack was a plain black affair, the kind most boys had, and looked too heavy for her delicate frame. Instead of a purse, a plain canvas messenger bag lay slumped by her chair; I saw a few paperbacks within, and my heart soared. She loved to read. Maybe….

I didn’t even know who this girl was, but I was already crazy about her.

When class started, the teacher stood behind her podium and told us that there was a new student in the class, Victoria Hinderman. The syllables rang like bells in my very soul; I cherished the name, felt it lift me up. The angel had a name. The teacher asked her if she would like to introduce herself, but Victoria, to everyone’s surprise and my utter delight, politely refused. I understood why completely, and my heart jumped; another thing we had in common.

It never occurred to me that there was no way in hell we could ever even have the chance to talk. I was smitten. Logic had no meaning in the realms of hormones and infatuation.

All during History I watched her, hardly caring what we were supposed to be learning, only desiring just one more second of watching her, one more angle to watch her at. And all the time a peculiar feeling poked at me, a sort of half-formed idea, and as I watched her, I puzzled over it, along with asking myself over and over what she liked, what she didn’t like, what her favorite book or movie or place was, what she dreamed about, what she wanted to do when she was eighteen and free.

It took me the entire class to figure out what the nagging feeling was, but then the words came to mind: Victoria Hinderman looked like an actress I’d seen once, Audrey Hepburn. Just like her. Only so, so much more beautiful, with a rounder face and deeper eyes and those slim, graceful shoulders and slender legs….

The obsession didn’t let up when the bell rang and I followed her out the door, getting shunted here and there as payment for my inattention. I didn’t come back to reality at all that day; I took notes but understood nothing, and doodled absently in the margins as the teacher explained…well, for all I knew it could have been the secret of the universe.

Victoria was in my English class as well, the last class of a day--I left the school in a daze, not even noticing that I had forgotten my coat until I was halfway down the street. The cold sobered me for half a second, and then I was daydreaming again. I tripped often, fell into snowdrifts, and nearly got terminated by a Chevy on my way home; by the time I stumbled into my kitchen, I was soaked to the skin, but grinning.

Kahme was waiting for me with hot chocolate and cookies. “Hey Evan.” When she saw me smiling, she produced one of her own. “What’re you so happy for?”

“Just saw…the most…and…and…BEAUTIFUL,” I sighed, not yet able to form coherent sentences.

“Outside?” she inquired, handing me a mug of cocoa. I laughed deliriously and took a sip, burning my tongue.

“Who cares about snow?” I said dreamily, laughing again as I flopped down onto a chair and spilled cocoa all over my lap. I ignored the burning sensation, waving my arm joyfully around. “Would you just LOOK at her, she’s…she….GORGEOUS….”

Kahme laughed too, handing me a towel, which I rubbed uselessly on myself, unable to function properly. “Who is?”

So in the vague snatches of words between sheer delirium, I informed Kahme all about the new girl in school, Victoria Hinderman--which turned out, in retrospect, to be a huge and tactless and utterly idiotic mistake. But Kahme, though frowning at first, soon pasted on a smile and listened with avid interest. I described Victoria in detail, using ridiculous hand gestures, and flushing furiously at the mere thought of her. I finished with a look of total awe, staring dreamily off into space.

“Cool,” Kahme said, with just a tiny hint of disapproval. “Is she nice?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I haven’t talked to her.”

“Oh.” She shrugged and turned away, chewing on a cookie. For a moment I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t as excited as me; then I remembered that she wasn’t a boy, and therefore couldn’t be excited about something like this. Still, I could hardly talk about anything else.

“Maybe…maybe I WILL talk to her.” My very essence quivered at the thought. “And maybe she’ll be just like me and maybe we’ll be friends and she’ll come over and--”

“She can’t come over,” Kahme said sharply.

My smile faded; the idea froze in place. “Oh, yeah.” But I refused to be beaten down by anything. “Well, maybe if I ask nicely…do some extra housework….”

“Yeah, well, what if she gets hurt anyway?”

I made a face. That was true. “Yeah…I could….”

“You said yourself, no one can come over,” Kahme told me firmly, biting viciously at her cookie.

At the time, I didn’t know why she was being like that. I only realized much later that Kahme hadn’t thought that her coming over was as big of a deal, I’d never offered to do extra work for her sake, and I’d never called her beautiful or talked about her like that. She didn’t realize that I HAD worked harder than usual for the chance to have her over, that I’d taken numerous vicious beatings for her sake, because I would never tell her that. She was jealous of Victoria for getting so much attention from me.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault, nor did it mean I liked one or the other better. It was just that the two girls existed in different circumstances. And it was true that I had never called Kahme beautiful, in my mind or anywhere else, because though she was cute, pretty, etc., she…well….

She wasn’t Victoria Hinderman.

I should have guessed that very day that Victoria was going to get me into trouble.

I had trouble focusing that day on much of anything, so I started dinner too late--Kahme was being huffy and neglected to remind me--and didn’t get a lot of cleaning done. When Dad got home, I was still stirring the gravy.

“Sorry, Dad,” I apologized, still smiling a bit at the thought of Victoria. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“You’ve had all f--ing afternoon,” he snapped, impatient and crabby. Normally I would’ve flinched and shut up, but I refused to let my good mood be quelled.

“Just wait a minute, Dad,” I sighed, flicking my hair out of my eyes. It was the wrong thing to say. In three seconds Dad was behind me, and suddenly jerked on my hair until I was looking at the ceiling. I struggled, my hands flying uselessly up; he pulled harder, until I cried out in pain.

“I do not work all day,” he hissed into my ear, “to come home to a filthy house and hear ‘just wait a minute’ for my f--ing dinner, do you understand me, Evan?”

“Let go, let me go,” I gasped, trying to pull away; he jerked his hand upward, still holding me, and I gasped, my eyes clouding with unshed tears.

“I said, do you understand me, you stupid child?”

“Yes,” I moaned, my hand reaching up to pull his away. But before I could do more than brush my fingers against his wrist, his other hand grabbed mine and wrenched it down. I screeched as it twisted the wrong way.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” he snapped, twisting harder, pulling my wrist until it was stretched awkwardly in front of me. “Don’t you ever f--ing touch me, do you hear me?”

I moaned in pain, struggling to get free, tears streaming down my face.

“Do you f--ing HEAR ME, YOU LITTLE b***h?”

He jerked my hand forward and pressed the side against the red-hot burner; I felt heat, heard a sickening sizzle, then registered searing pain and screamed for all I was worth. Dad wouldn’t let go, and all my struggling got me were a few burnt fingers as well as my hand.

“DO YOU HEAR ME, EVAN?!”

“Yes, yes, let me go, stop stop stop!” I shrieked.

“Yes SIR,” he snarled, pressing harder, exposing more skin to the burner.

“Yes sir!” I yelled; he released me, and instantly I was cradling my hand, ignoring Dad still jerking on my hair, sobbing in pain as the patch of red-black skin throbbed and burned and seared.

“Ugh,” Dad spat, and I whimpered hoarsely in terror as I heard him pull something out of the knife drawer. “Disgusting, hair in your f--ing eyes every goddamned minute of the day, stupid little pig--”

He dragged me by my hair to the back door; I was forced to keep up or else he’d pull my hair from the roots. He shoved me outside, then pulled me to the center of the backyard and pushed me to my knees. Then he shoved my head roughly forward, pulled his hand away from my head without releasing my hair, and started to cut away at my hair with a gleaming pair of scissors, shearing it so roughly that several times he cut through skin, grabbing different handfuls of hair each time until my whole head was eventually covered in a rough, bedraggled carpet of short black hairs. When he had finished, he pushed me forward, facedown in the snow, and dropped the scissors onto my back. I heard him storm away and slam the back door, leaving me alone.

I didn’t have the strength to get up just then, so I lay there in the freezing snow for what felt like hours, but was really just a few minutes. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the rapid cooling of the burn on my hand instead of the icy fingers stroking along my body, almost unbearably cold. I started shivering, but even so, it was awhile before I had the strength to push myself back up.

My vision was cleared of its usual black fringe, which lay scattered, striking against the snow, and my head was suddenly very cold. I reached up and felt a few hairs that were only a centimeter long, right beside a small patch that was nearly three times that length. I must have looked so incredibly stupid. With trembling hands I took the scissors from the snow, my bare fingers pink and shivering, and did my best to fix the damage. But it was tricky; my hair didn’t even lay flat in some places, like the back of my neck, but rather stuck straight out. I groaned, shivered, and staggered onto my feet.

I was wet through, having been outside in the snow with only my cotton undershirt and pants on, and the warmth of the kitchen was wonderful. But before I could flop wearily onto my chair, Dad grabbed my injured wrist and held me back.

“And what the f-- do you think you’re doing?”

“Dinner, Dad?” I inquired. Usually he thought it rude if I skipped.

“And who in the hell gave you permission to eat?” he snapped, punching me hard across the face. I staggered back, almost tripping but for the counter, which I clung to for balance. “Get out of here.”

I did as he said, practically running upstairs and fleeing to my bathroom before Kahme could even see that I was there. I heard her call after me, but I ignored her, stripping down and stepping eagerly into the shower. It took me about ten seconds to remember my injured wrist, upon which I shrieked and held my hand safely out of the shower jet. It was throbbing harder, turning an odd shade of blackish red.

The rest of the shower was rather enjoyable, the burning water washing away the snow and the tension and the tears. After a solid twenty minutes, I was prepared to face the world again, or whatever. I wrapped myself in a towel, grabbed some clothes from my dresser, and was gone again before Kahme could pass another comment. As it was, she had hidden her face in the pillow. I dressed, then reemerged; Kahme sat up then, calling after me, “Evan? Evan, are you okay…?” But I ignored her, lest either of us get upset all over again.

I spent the rest of the evening cleaning and doing homework, and flopped into bed at half-past midnight. I was too tired to cry, instead I whimpered into my pillow from the pain, grabbing my injured wrist hard. Tomorrow was going to be hell.

Kahme softly wriggled out from under the bed and sat by my side; I turned my back to her.

“Evan? Are you okay?”

“No,” I said hoarsely, burying my head beneath the blankets. She pulled them aside again, and I heard her start to sob.

“I’m sorry, Evan, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I shoulda told you, I shoulda--”

“Wha?” I asked blearily.

“I forgot to remind you about dinner, it’s all my fault, I’m sorry, Evan, I’m sorry, an’ now you’re hurt ‘cause of me….”

“What?” I repeated, severely confused.

“You’re hurt,” she whined, snuggling against my back for comfort. “I heard screaming.”

“Oh….” I finally realized what she meant. “Oh, no, Kahme, don’t be stupid….” Even though that had been a bit mean of her.

“B-but I heard it….”

“Yeah, I….” I struggled to make up a lie. “I burned my hand on the stove, see?” I showed her the ugly burn in the moonlight, and she winced. “Dad was yelling at me.”

“What for?” she whimpered.

“Being stupid.”

“B-but Evan….”

“Hmm?”

She didn’t know how to put it in words, so instead she lay beside me and started fingering my shorn-off hair. I flushed, pulling my head away.

“What?”

“Your hair got cut, Evan….”

“Yeah. I got a haircut.”

“Your head got cut too….”

“Didn’t say it was a good haircut.”

She sighed, snuggling closer. “Evan…I saw him….”

F--. “Oh.”

I suspected that she wanted to scold me for lying, but she didn’t. Instead, she hugged me. “How c’n anyone be so mean?” she sobbed.

“Just a haircut.”

“He hurt you…he made you all cold…you’re still shivering….”

That was true; I’d been trying to ignore it, in vain. “Snow.”

“He was pushing you around.”

“Kahme….” I pleaded, but she kept on crying.

“How could he be so mean? Why would he be like that? Why does he have to hurt you?”

I didn’t have an answer.

She buried her face in my blanket. “It’s not fair…it isn’t fair….”

I sighed, running my fingers through my nonexistent hair. “Victoria’s gonna think I look stupid….”

“If she says anything I’ll kill her,” Kahme said passionately, “I’ll kill ‘em all…if they say ANYthing….”

I stiffened, wriggling away from her. “Don’t say stuff like that. You can get into trouble.”

“I don’t care!” I could feel her ferocity in the darkness. “Bad enough that…that your dad…no one else is gonna mess with you, no one no one no one!”

“I…Good Lord, Kahme…” I said weakly.

She hugged me tightly again, unexpectedly kissing my cheek. “Don’t let ‘em hurt you, Evan,” she begged me, and I was suddenly, inexplicably aware with the way our bodies were lined up, her chest against my back, her arms around my waist, her face so incredibly close to my neck…. “Don’t you ever let anyone hurt you, never never never let ‘em….”

I could think of nothing to say for the longest time. Finally, I came to my senses somewhat. “Get off me, Kahme,” I moaned in the suffering attitude boys often use with girls when they’re small. “Jeez.” I pulled free; Kahme backed off, but squeezed my hand once before disappearing under the bed again.

“’Night, Evan….”

“Goodnight.”

I tried not to think of my stupid haircut, how cold I was, the bruise on my cheek, Victoria, Kahme’s words, or much of anything; instead, I tried just to go to sleep. Eventually I did, as people do when they are tired.

But though I had thought Kahme’s words--“Don’t you ever let anyone hurt you”--applied especially to my dad, I was wrong; they applied to someone else, someone much newer to my life who was just as capable of hurting me. And the sad part was, Kahme was absolutely right about her.

The next day I wore my hat beneath my hood, keeping it on as long as I possibly could. Six teachers in a row told me to take it off during class, and I did so with bad grace each time…and every time a small crossfire of snickers met me when the hat was gone. I self-consciously raised a hand to flatten my hair, before I realized that it wasn’t there anymore. Then I flushed and hid my face in my arms for the rest of the class period.

I didn’t realize until later what those people were really laughing at. They were teenagers, vicious and gossipy; they were not laughing at my hair, but rather at the fact that I had changed it. And in truth they were laughing about the way it had been before, long and oily--my hair was difficult to keep clean at the best of times. I only realized a couple of days afterward that it was much healthier this length, if more annoying and embarrassing.

The worst were the classes with Victoria. I was absolutely determined to be invisible, but still wanted to watch her as long as I could. The teacher told me to take the hat off in the middle of the class; I flushed hard and did as she said, realizing with chagrin that every person in the room, including Victoria, had turned to look at me. I didn’t meet her eyes; instead I shoved my hat in my pocket and hid my face from view. Eventually all the eyes looked away, and the laughter was gone. I felt like crying from shame: Victoria had seen me, she’d seen my hair like this. Ugh.

And then I had her AGAIN! This time I wasn’t dumb enough to wear the stupid hat in the first place, but still, it was embarrassing. I cursed Dad to hell and back under my breath, angry--couldn’t he just wait? Was it that big of a deal? And did he have to hurt my hand while he was at it? Again, I found it tough to concentrate; impossible when Victoria was in sight. I couldn’t stop staring at her, I wanted to capture it all like Kahme did with paper and pencil, trap the delicate lines of her collarbone, her wrist, her eyelashes onto paper. She was so beautiful….

And I looked like a f--ing gargoyle.

I ran out of school, nearly crying with frustration. Why did everything have to be this way? Why did I have to lack the guts to even hold my head up in class? Maybe Victoria thought I was a coward, lacking the courage to even sit up straight in the face of controversy and ridicule. Maybe she thought I was weak, succumbing to the pressure and hiding my face. The whole afternoon I was miserable, even when Kahme looked at me for a couple of minutes before telling me firmly that my hair looked better short.

“Yeah,” she enthused when I denied it vehemently. “It’s not so shiny anymore, Evan, it looks all soft and blacker than before, I like it….”

“It sucks,” I said gloomily. “Everyone laughed at me.”

She scowled. “Not that Victoria person?”

“I dunno.” I thought I might burst into tears.

Kahme took pity on me and fed me hot cocoa and snicker doodles, sitting quietly beside me, not knowing what to say. But her presence was enough; soon, I got over it, and moved on to start cleaning the house. Kahme followed me around, seeing that I didn’t want to talk; but she stated from time to time that my hair looked much better. I assumed that it was just to make me feel good again, and disregarded it.

I wasn’t delirious today, so I got everything done, and didn’t get hit. Still, the embarrassment of the day refused to wear off, and when my dad passed some caustic comment about the food (which he did almost every day, usually no big deal) I thought I might burst into tears. I made it until everything was done and I could go to sleep, then flumped onto my bed and covered myself up until I was nothing more than a miserable lump.

Kahme awoke at my presence and sat, yawning, at the edge of my bed. “Evan?”

I ignored her. She shook me.

“Evan, you’re not asleep…c’mon…why’re you ignorin’ me?”

“Go away,” I snapped--anger was my only safeguard against tears.

Kahme sighed. She plopped sideways beside me, her fingers playing with my hair. “I think it looks nice.”

“That’s not it,” I said in a small voice.

“What’s wrong, then?”

I sighed shakily, burying my face in the covers. “Everyone was laughing at me…and my face is all bruised up, isn’t it…?”

“Aw, it’s okay,” Kahme insisted, which I took as a “yes”. “It’s fine, Evan….”

“But she’d never seen me before,” I moaned. “And…and she….”

“Well,” she said vehemently, revealing her enmity over the subject, “if she doesn’t like it then you don’t need to care what she thinks, ‘cause she’s dead wrong anyway--”

“Stop that!” I said sharply. No one talked that way about Victoria.

“Well what do you possibly see in her then if she’s not nice?” she said exasperatedly.

“Sh-…she’s….” I didn’t know what to say. Then I brightened. “You haven’t even seen her yet! Why don’t you meet me after school, I’ll show you--”

“Oh, so she’s just pretty, that’s why you care so much what she thinks?”

I was too delusional to catch the acidity in her tone. “JUST pretty? She’s gorgeous!”

“Guess that’s all that matters,” she muttered, flouncing off the bed.

I caught the sarcasm this time; it was so rare in her. “Kahme, that’s not even half of it…she’s different, she’s….”

“Have you ever even talked to her?”

“No.” I flushed. “How could I possibly…? She’s perfect, why would she want to talk to me?”

“If she isn’t gonna care about you then there’s no point in even looking at her!”

“Aw, you wouldn’t understand,” I sighed, rolling back over again.

“Why not?” she demanded.

I yawned. “’Cause you’re a girl, I guess….”

“Oh, if that’s all,” she snapped, and kicked the bed hard as she disappeared under the bed.

I blinked. “What are you so mad about?”

She ignored me. I rolled my eyes, then closed them, sighing again and nodding off.

“Kahme?”

“What?” she growled.

I tried to keep my voice light, though the plea in it couldn’t be contained. “Are you still coming to meet me after school?”

Silence.

“Kahme?”

“Do I get to walk with you to school too?”

“Sure!” I enthused. “I gotta take you to show you where to meet me, that’d be cool, I can meet you on the corner…you in?”

“Sure,” she said sleepily. “’Night, Evan.”

Her anger seemed to have disappeared. “Goodnight,” I said cheerfully, and we went to sleep.

The next morning, as I pulled on my sweater, I reminded Kahme of the plan: “So get on your snow stuff and go down the ladder, but be CAREFUL, and take the back way so Dad won’t see you through the windows…and meet me at the corner, okay? I’ll get you some breakfast, first place we see.”

She agreed happily, if a bit drowsily, and I hurried downstairs and rushed through breakfast so I’d have time to add in an extra task to my morning routine. When Dad inquired sourly as to what my problem was, I replied that I had to go early to see a teacher, and he couldn’t really argue.

I met Kahme at the corner as planned; she was already more energetic than I was, bouncing excitedly about, only a pitiful plea of despair stopping her from throwing snowballs at me in an attempt to recreate one of our epic fights. Nothing would ever be as good, anyway.

We walked along after breakfast at the donut shop a few blocks down, talking freely, just like we always did. I still find it hard to believe that when I had all that, all the company and conversation and comfort I would ever need, most of me was far away, hoping for a chance to see Victoria. Kahme was right, it was stupid; I’d never even talked to the girl. Still, hormones are hard to fight with logic alone.

I showed Kahme where the front door of the school was, warning her that she shouldn’t get directly in its way, people would run her over. Instead, I’d meet her by the side of the steps or on the corner. The first bell rang; I waved goodbye to her and dashed inside, into the warmth. All that day I was antsy, waiting for a chance to see Victoria, waiting to meet Kahme after class and show off my new obsession.

History came and went in a haze of dreamy adoration; I was constantly collecting little tidbits about Victoria in my mind, what she looked like when the light hit her just so (throwing peculiar angles and shadows on her fine features every time she moved) , how she wore her hair every day (twisted up into a bun like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, don’t ask me how I know this, or swinging in a long, slender tail, or perhaps loose with the front clipped or pulled back), what kind of clothes, jewelry, or makeup she wore (clothes: loose-fitting, practical, warm, usually in different shades of black, white, or green; jewelry: plain pendants on silver chains, cheap charm bracelets, long geometric earrings with one on her right ear, another one and a small pearl or jeweled stud in the left ear; makeup: not much at all, perhaps some mascara or dark lipstick on a special day, and once I watched in utter awe as she applied lip gloss, passionately envying that little plastic stick and tiny sponge that had the privilege of touching her bare skin. She sometimes wore her gloves in class, slender white ones, and everything about her was graceful, even when she coughed, sneezed, or stumbled over a word as she spoke.

Then more classes passed in a daze, and then it was English, to begin the character study all over again. Victoria loved English class; she was so smart, her words so clear and decisive and intelligent-sounding, and she got every question asked of her right. She said things that made stupider classmates scratch their heads, but to my elation, I understood almost everything that came from her perfect angel’s mouth. But I couldn’t make myself sound so bright and eloquent; when the teacher called on me--she made it a habit of calling on everyone in the class at least once per period--I stammered and had to start over with my simple little answer about Romeo and Juliet. At least I got the answer right, though my face was burning before I’d said my first word. My voice sounded so harsh and scratchy in comparison to sweet Victoria’s.

All that class I found myself making up verses about her, cheesy things that seemed inadequate but not too woefully exaggerated to me at the time; I even wrote some down. But I never did give them to her, even when I finished them and made them look nice.

Then school was over; I raced out of the classroom, grabbed my coat, determined to reach Kahme before Victoria did. And I managed it; I skidded to a halt at the steps of the school, snow-crusted and slippery, and hopped off them to land by Kahme’s side.

“Hi!” she said cheerfully. I smiled.

“Hi!”

“How was school?” she inquired.

“No time,” I said quickly, dragging her into the shadows. I pointed down one of the streets. “Victoria usually crosses the street here and goes home that way. Wait, you’ll see her in a sec.”

“How do you know all this?” Kahme demanded, but I ignored her--there were suddenly a lot more important things to focus on.

“Look! There she is!”

I pointed her out as the crowd diluted and separated. Kahme scowled. “I don’t see her.”

“Look, look….” How could she not see her? To me, it was like the sun concentrated solely on her whenever she walked outside, just like I did. “Aw, you can’t see her from here,” I complained, pulling Kahme along with me. We wove through the crowd, Kahme muttering “excuse me” every few seconds, me with my eyes trained on Victoria. She turned down a nearby street; I followed, tugging Kahme along, stopping when I saw that we were the only ones there.

“See her?” I said quietly to Kahme, aware of the sudden stillness.

“Yeah.” She sighed.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” I stared hungrily at her, wanting something deep in my chest somewhere, a desire I couldn’t name. “Isn’t she?”

“She’s okay.”

I turned and blinked at her, staring. “OKAY? Look at her!”

Kahme shrugged, her mouth set in an unhappy scowl. “I don’t see anything special.”

“You…I…you don’t…my God,” I muttered, tugging on her hand again. “C’mon.”

“No.” She jerked away from me, turning to leave. “You go follow her by yourself!”

She said it too loudly; Victoria paused. “Kahme!” I hissed, but she had already turned the corner.

I watched Victoria in trepidation, my stomach sinking to my knees, my heart pounding. But thankfully, she did nothing; she just kept walking again. I followed like a lost man follows a light through the labyrinth.

Then suddenly Victoria heard someone else’s footsteps and swiveled around; I froze, staring shamelessly at her, my eyes soaking in every detail even though I was terrified at what she’d do. Her backpack slung over one shoulder. Her hand resting gracefully on the strap. Her legs crouched slightly, apart, a fighting stance. Her left hand tensing, gripping the side of her jeans. Her eyes searching me, trying to understand.

In the longest three seconds of my life, I searched her back, looking for something entirely different; then I very abruptly came to my senses and ran away, back the way I’d come, running as fast as I possibly could. Victoria shouted after me--“Hey!”--but I was too frightened to stop and comprehend what exactly she meant by that.

I turned another corner and found Kahme waiting, playing with a snowball. When she saw me, her hands tensed as if she’d like nothing better than to throw the wad of powder at me so hard that she’d leave a dent in my head. But stupid as I was, I didn’t understand why.

I stopped, doubled over, and caught my breath, delirious and dizzy with adrenaline.

“She see you?” Kahme asked dryly.

I nodded miserably.

“Then what?”

“I ran away,” I moaned, only now realizing what a dumbass coward I had been. If only I’d been smooth enough to talk to her, try to clear up the situation so I’d have another precious moment alone with her…alone with Victoria….

“Great spirits, Evan,” Kahme sighed, taking my wrist and pulling me straight again. “You’re a mess.”

“I know,” I said, my voice very small.

She pulled me along with her, sighing again. “Let’s go home.”



The next day was both heartwarmingly good, and torturously bad. Girls confused me; I got my feelings mixed up half the time, and then my words were so jumbled up that I could barely even speak. Or, as in Victoria’s case, I spoke too much.

I put my head down in History, fully intending to hide my face for the rest of my life in Victoria’s presence, and tried to listen to the lecture. When it was over, we got a bit of free time to work quietly on our homework; and amid the hum of whispers and low voices I heard Victoria’s sweet tones speak:

“Um, excuse me…Amy?”

I looked up, just a bit; she was speaking to a girl seated next to her. The other girl--not half as pretty as her--smiled brightly.

“Yeah?”

I lowered my face and half-closed my eyes--at this angle, no one could really see from far away that I wasn’t asleep, I was watching Victoria from across the room.

Her finger pointed delicately in my direction, and I winced. “Who’s that boy over there?”

“Boy? Which one?”

“The one with dark hair, in the corner.”

“Oh, him?” I heard a bit of amused scorn in her voice, and flinched. “Evan Moor.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Victoria didn’t miss anything.

“Real basket case, he’s always sitting by himself, reading and sh--stuff,” she corrected hastily; a teacher was nearby. “Never talks to anyone, and he always looks funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yeah, see, he’s all skinny and pale and his hair was real greasy before he got it cut, and he’s always covered in bruises from something or other--”

“Bruises?”

“Yeah.”

“What from?”

Amy half-shrugged; like she cared. My face was burning by then, and I wished I could sink into the floor and die out of sight. “Who knows? Why’re you asking, anyway?” she said, suddenly suspicious.

“Oh…I think he was following me after school….”

Amy made an odd noise I couldn’t decipher. “Following you? Poor girl.”

Victoria seemed uncomfortable, and I knew why; she was so kind and angelic that she didn’t even want to talk badly about ME. I could have kissed her, but I remembered that she would hate me by now. No one wanted some freak following her home. “Maybe he just wanted to ask me something, I dunno.”

“Just ignore him, you’re better off that way--maybe then he’ll stop stalking you.”

“Yeah….” Victoria said doubtfully, then thanked Amy and turned away.

I wished that there was some way I could throw myself out the window without drawing any attention to myself. I refused to show my face until the bell rang; then I made absolutely sure that I was the last person to leave the classroom. The sun shone black as I drifted through the rest of my classes in a miserable daze.

In English, I was listless; I paid no attention to the teacher, only giving a vague mumble when she asked for an answer, and slumped over with my head resting on my arm, gazing sadly at Victoria. She was so beautiful, so graceful, and I was…well, I was me--103 pounds of pure awkwardness with an inferiority complex attached. I wished someone would stab me in the spine as I tortured myself for a straight hour, absently watching Victoria.

The bell rang, and I sluggishly heaved my backpack onto my shoulder and trudged to the door, behind everyone else; even the teacher zipped out before anyone could speak to her. But before I could reach the door, I looked up and saw that Victoria was blocking it, and glaring right at me.

“Hey,” she said bluntly.

I started; I swear my heart kicked into overdrive at that moment. I wished my hair was there to hide me. I looked shyly at her, my head still down, my back still bowed beneath the weight of my backpack. I couldn’t answer; I could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“You were following me yesterday.”

It wasn’t a question. I flushed even harder than before and looked away. “U-umm….”

“You were. I saw you.”

I bit my lip hard, wondering if, out of all the times I could possibly cry, I was going to pick now to let it all out. I felt like sobbing, to be perfectly honest; I wanted to spill my guts to this girl. Which was always a dangerous sign.

Victoria dropped her backpack, lifting her graceful, slender hand and shoving me in the shoulder. I swayed back and forth, stumbling, unable to keep my balance. “Well?” she demanded.

I was, by then, petrified. “I…um….” I grabbed the strap of my backpack with both hands, as if ready to swing it if I was cornered.

“Why?” she said, both angry and curious at the same time.

Why? Was she insane? I let my backpack fall; it was hurting me. I’d need to visit my locker when Victoria wasn’t giving me a tongue-lashing. I made the mistake of looking up--then I had to turn away from her eyes. I stared instead, desperate with loathing and longing, at her Converses. “I….” I couldn’t say anything at first, there was something stuck in my throat--but then it just fell out. “You’re beautiful,” I blurted, then turned red and wanted to run as I realized how stupid it would sound to her.

She put her hands on her hips, tilted her head to one side. “No I’m not,” she replied, almost automatically.

“Yes you are,” I said hoarsely. My throat was still messed up from the fever of a couple of days ago.

Victoria was sharper than I had ever imagined. “Why do you stare at me like that during class?”

I shook my head hard, backing away slightly only to stumble over my backpack. “I….” I tried to think, but was too dizzy. “I dunno,” I murmured to the floor, but it didn’t come out that way--it came out as a rasping squeak.

“Are you okay?” Her sharpness never dulled, did it? This was getting dangerous, but all I could find was embarrassment and a severe longing to melt into the floor and never be seen again.

“I’m fine,” I said reflexively. Social workers and their inevitable consequences had taught me the value of and all the answers to the obvious, stupid questions. But Victoria meant it. Didn’t she?

“Why is your face all bruised?”

I flushed even harder, couldn’t answer; this conversation was quickly becoming deadly. Oh God….

“Aren’t you going to answer me?”

No. God, I wanted to…but no. I couldn’t. I didn’t.

She frowned, placing a hand on her hip as she stared thoughtfully at me. Her hand accidentally pulled her shirt down, just a fraction, and I gazed, awestruck, at that tiny new patch of ivory skin on her shoulder. “Did someone beat you up?” she inquired, her voice becoming more pleasant and kind with every word.

I swallowed; I didn’t know what to say. I quickly dropped my eyes to the floor. “U-um…I….”

“Was it those stupid guys again?” she pressed, ignoring my unresponsiveness. “Those imbecilic thugs, they’re not back in school for a week and they already go and beat someone ELSE up! The NERVE!”

I blinked, bewildered. Not so much by what she had said--I hadn’t registered that yet--but more by the way she said it, the way her voice rose and fell, her diction, and her word choice. Imbecilic? Who but me ever used that word, even in their minds?

Victoria’s hand rested lightly on my shoulder again, and my heart stalled; I suddenly couldn’t feel my brain. My heartbeat echoed in my skull. “I’m sorry,” she told me, and she meant it. “They’re retarded. I’ll make them stop.”

I still hadn’t figured out what she meant, but I understood her tone--compassion, caring. For me? What kind of dream world was this, and when had I arrived? “Why?” I said hoarsely, raising my eyes until they met…well, not hers. But close. I couldn’t look anyone in the eyes, especially not Victoria.

She smiled, then took her hand back, turned away, and picked up her backpack again. “Because you called me beautiful,” she said over her shoulder. She’d been answering an entirely different question, I knew. But her gleaming smile made me feel faint.

“W-…wait,” I said desperately, grabbing my own backpack. She half-turned. I felt my tongue swell up, grow clumsy, screw up my speaking abilities, but I tried nonetheless to ask her: “C-can I…d’you…want me…to…y-y-your backpack….”

She seemed to understand. She frowned a little, gave me one very thoughtful, very piercing look-over, as if searching me for cracks or flaws. I flushed furiously, turned my eyes away. “No thank you,” she said politely, “I can carry it myself.”

“Um…oh….” My legs realized this before my brain did, and didn’t follow her.

“Bye,” she called, and was gone.

“Bye,” I repeated hoarsely to thin air. I stood there for twenty-three torturous seconds, numb, the conversation’s meaning coming to me in bits and pieces, short bursts of understanding.

I hadn’t realized then that Victoria had been worried about me, seeing that I looked about to keel over--she hadn’t understood that it was because I was practically stoned by her presence. She hadn’t liked the thought of letting me walk an extra mile or so just to see her home, much less while carrying both our backpacks; she’d thought that I would pass out halfway there. She wanted me to get home as soon as I could so I could take a nap, get better somehow. But she didn’t want to lead me on; so she’d left me alone. She hadn’t done it out of cruelty or rejection.

I didn’t ever want to accuse her of cruelty, but that was how I took it; in the end, I blamed myself for taking an innocent refusal as such, and left Victoria blameless. But it still didn’t make it hurt any less.

I swung my backpack onto a desk, nearly falling over in the process, and heaved it onto my shoulders. Then I stared bleakly around myself, alone, the memory of Victoria’s cherry blossom perfume still lingering in the air.

I think it was about then that I burst into tears.

Brilliant as always I must say and very clever in the hold of events... I'm more than intrigued as to what will happen with Evan and what shall happen with this minor sidetrack he is seeing in his life with Victoria.... Kahme has the right idea and thinking in the right way right now. Shes being very practical to the situation... lets hope she makes the right decision.

how soon? eek

hehehe I think you enjoyed writing that xp

but I mean how soon till the next chapter? smile

I suppose that will be soon seeing as if Hillary becomes next president xd