The Letter

 

 

It started with a piece of poetry signed, Your Friend. That’s what had me stumped. Which ‘friend‘? I had hundreds, hundreds of ‘friends‘, who had never been over to my house or shared a secret or stayed up late eating ice cream until we had bellyaches. There was only one friend I did that with. But none of them knew I was a covert KC Luca fan, not even Heather. Not London, or Ashley, or Tiffany. Not Brad, or Haley, or Jessica.

Saying you are beautiful is like/

wondering why Mona Lisa lost her smile/

Most natural thing in the world/

as I look into those hazel eyes/

But, it’s hard to tell you just how much I love you/

no matter the miles/

Just promise me you won’t cry, with those/

Pretty hazel eyes

The original song said blue, not hazel. And the lyrics were the epiphany of stupid lyrics, something to the equivalency of ‘Wheels on the Bus’. KC Luca always sang about his on-again off-again girlfriend, Anya Stone, who had blue eyes, not hazel. I thought the note was stupid, and kind of creepy, and made me feel as though someone was watching me. It hadn’t been there before fourth hour, taped to the inside of my locker door, when I had come to grab my Calculus book.

‘How did it even get in my locker,’ I wondered, glancing around the halls. The sound of ugly, green and yellow lockers slamming, and loud, overzealous laughter rung in my ears. It wasn’t just one person laughing, but dozens of people, just milling around. I wondered how many of them were laughing at my expression, as I read that stupid, creepy note. But I didn’t throw it away. Instead, I began folding it. That’s when I saw the writing on the back. On the other side, a poem was written, in neat, unrecognizable handwriting

It’s hard to describe/

the brilliance in your smile/

Blinding like the sun/

It’s hard to describe/

the pain in your eyes/

Hidden behind that sun-like smile/

I see what others don’t/

Even when it’s hard to look

I almost dropped the note. With each word, it seemed as though the paper grew another degree hotter, until the words were burning my hands.

Sincerely,

Your Friend

The sound of loud, clicking heels made me look up. Because there she was, in all her Mui-Mui, Rock Revival, Express glory. Heathers Gibbs, her pouty pink lips drawing into a smile as she caught my eye, strolled through the halls, looking like a goddess. Mina and Elena stood at her flanks, trailing her like they were on leashes, never more than three feet away from their exalted best friend. From my exalted best friend.

I watched, like a movie in slow motion, as heads turned and whistles blew. Guys, their girlfriends strung on their arms like boas, turned to watch their three, perfectly shaped butts; girls enviously stared down the latest fashion trends, their fingers flying through the internet on their smart-phones, to find the same top or skirt or belt; teachers frowned disapprovingly, taking in their tiny tops and micro miniskirts. I swore I saw Mr. Fitz’s meaty hand begin to cover a forming bulge in his pants.

“Auden,” Heather sang, her voice smooth like butter, although if she knew I ever compared her to butter, she’d throw a fit, “what is that? A love letter from another adoring fan?”

Her animated brown eyes, lined with purple kohl and shimmering light pink rouge, widened, and her bow-like lips drew up a saucy smile. Today, she looked like a doll, or an amplified version of the 1950s housewife, with a pretty pink satin bow tied like a headband, the bow tilted on the side of her head, her loose, chocolate curls bouncing behind her with each step. She wore a black silken shirt, gauzy so you could still see her pear shape, decorated with white dots. Jean shorts, so short you could see her pockets pulled down in the front, adorned her long legs, with pink- the perfect shade to match the bow in her hair- platform heels, as though her long legs didn’t look long enough.

I hated to admit how close she was to the truth.

“No, it’s this crazy thing,” I began airily, my tone teasing yet shaky, folding up the note and tossing it in the back of my locker, “called homework. You should try it sometime.”

Heather laughed. Not a sneer, but an actual laugh. Gripping her perfectly perky C-cups, she batted her lashes. “These are these crazy things called breasts, otherwise known as a geek’s best friend. You should try them sometime.”

I laughed, like always, even though her redundancy was misplaced, like always. Most of the geeks were too afraid to even breathe in her direction, let alone have her catch them in the act of ogling at her breasts. The funny thing was, if the guys who adored Heather knew how… socially awkward she could be at times, about a fifth of them wouldn’t even glance her way.

My mother always thought Heather had Social Issues, ever since when I told her about how, in kindergarten, during a field trip to the beach, Heather let Pat Simpson stick his fingers up a couple of her holes. And I’m not talking about her nostril holes. When I joked with Heather about the pills they advertise on TV that could smooth her out, she’d simply laugh and talk about how she wouldn’t want erectile dysfunction or discomfort urinating.

It kind of sucked being the school slut’s best friend. Heather and I both knew it- we joked about it a lot, considering the ironic fact that I was ‘The Virgin Queen’. Sometimes, I felt as though people knew me because they knew her, and had no idea I really even existed until Heather dragged me into some conversation.

“We’re not all blessed to be Baywatch babes,” I laughed, closing my locker. Heather rolled her eyes playfully and linked her pale, skinny arm through mine. It was awkward though, because she was so tall compared to me. I didn’t even reach her shoulder, me in my high-tops, and her in her platform sandals.

“I know, bask in my awesomeness,” she sighed, feigning boredom, as we began cruising the halls. Mina and Elena weren’t far behind. “Now, I found this awesome thing I want you to get me for my birthday.”

“Let me guess: something that will probably cost more than I have in my college fund,” I hinted. Heather had… expensive taste. As we pushed our way into the lunch room, the place packed and smelling of something slightly inedible, Heather grabbed two trays. Elena and Mina were stuck grabbing their own.

“Not unless you steal it.” She winked, teasingly, even though I faltered for a moment. Of course she would say that. For some reason, even though her parents were loaded beyond belief, Heather insisted on stealing things. Last month, it was a pair of Chanel glasses. After growing bored of those, she stole a bra- one with diamonds and sparkles on it- from Victoria’s Secret, even though it was two sizes too small. This week, she adorned a new pair of Buckle jeans, a pair that I knew she hadn’t paid for using Daddy’s credit card.

“No, nothing that huge. I’ll give you three guesses,” she smiled, trying her best to reassure me, her painted red lips parting to reveal white teeth. She piled her tray with salad, giving me a disapproving look as I happily took a slice of greasy pepperoni pizza. “His name rhymes with Heck, and he is walking through those doors right now.”

Turning around, my tray warm in my hands, I found myself staring down Beck Rivers.

“Oh Auden,” she purred, running her ruby red nails up and down my arm softly, “I want him. He’s so… so beautiful. I want him so badly, it burns.” She drawled out the ‘urn’ in burns, making her sound almost musical to the ears.

“That might be that STD,” I teased. She shot me a sarcastic smile and watched as Beck walked through the lunchroom. She was right; he was beautiful. Everything- from his messy, dark waves of hair to his amber eyes that pierced your soul, as our drama teacher would say- about him was beautiful. His square jaw was something of a Grecian sculpture, making Adonis himself weep with envy. His walk- his saunter- was like watching a horse gallop. It came so naturally to him, so carefree, I wondered how anything could be so perfect.

And then, the perfection we were secretly watching looked over at us. No, he looked over at me. His eyes, like molten amber, scanned my body from halfway across the lunchroom. I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks, and wondered if Heather caught on. Looking up at her, I saw she was primping her breasts and staring at him like a starving lion cat, and he was freshly butchered gazelle.

“Auden,” she said breathlessly, not tearing her eyes away from his chiseled arms as they crossed in front of his chest, and his tiny smoldering smirk, “go invite him to my party. Now. Tell him to wrap himself up and stick himself in the pile with all my other presents.”

My eyes widened. She was not serious, was she? As thought she just realized I was still standing there, she gave me a glare that Mina and Elena would have peed themselves over. She dug through her bag until she found a hot pink flyer I had helped her make days before.

“Fine. I’ll do it myself,” she huffed, before marching over to him. When she reached him, she tossed her chocolate curls over her shoulder and shot me a look. I watched in utter horror as she trailed a ruby red nail up his arm, upping her game and practically trying to suffocate him with her boobs. He simply stepped back, and arched a brow. If she was nervous, she sure as hell wasn’t showing it. I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding when he took the familiar hot pink invite out of her hand and slipped it into his pocket.

Of course, then I stared at her in amazement as she stuck her hand inside his pocket, slipping another sheet in there as well. This girl was unstoppable, apparently. When she sauntered back over, swishing her hips more than usual, she gave me a confident, unfaltering smile.

“I think I just felt his left nut,” she whispered, a naughty grin on her face, as though the tale of her groping/possible harassment story was some big secret and not in public, for all of the cafeteria to see. I was sure people were watching two of Jackson High’s most attractive students interact. Beck himself was like a walking, talking, breathing cliché bad boy from every movie. Every girl wanted to tame him, including Heather. And every guy wanted Heather. Its like the two were made for each other, together so unbelievably good looking it made you wonder if you were entering Heaven.

The Friend Request

 

 

 

My mother nitpicked my hair like I was going to prom, even though we were just lounging around the house, watching reruns of whatever show was on MTV. Her long, silky dark hair was pulled up into an elegantly messy ponytail that made me forget she had spent all day in her pajamas. Her silken red kimono hung from her tiny wiry frame, reminding me where I got my frail-looking, bird frame.

“- is such a dork. He sent me roses today, even though he knows I like tulips more,” she drawled, rolling her eyes playfully even though she was blushing, and painted her toenails a rosy pink color. It seemed as though she was complaining about something new, everyday, even if she was secretly smitten by it. Like today, when my father had taken half the day off just to take her to lunch and do some shopping.

I nodded along, like I understood, even though a guy had never gotten me flowers, or blown off work to take me shopping. As she began another animated story- waving her arms about, her brows knit so tight the wrinkles in her forehead were more occurring than cracks in a sidewalk, her cheeks flushed- I wondered what it was like to be in love.

Heather called it bittersweet. Sweet, because she had conquered another boy, another toy for her collection; bitter, because suddenly her new toy felt as though it was actually subjected to pampering her like a princess when they weren’t having some weird, major hump-fest in the backseat of his car. No, unlike a normal person, Heather insisted the worse they treat her, the better they are in bed. I swore she had some Daddy complex, since her dad was, quote unquote, ‘a lying, cheating, bastard of a scumbag who doesn’t have the balls to file for a divorce’.

My mother’s version of love was a lot sweeter. Back in the eighties, when she wore neon skirts and ratted her hair and smoked in the girl’s bathroom, my mother was queen of the school. She was perfection in every way, or so my dad said every night for the first ten years of bedtime stories. Their’s was always my favorite.

They always changed something in it, spatting about it playfully while telling the story, and earned giggles from me. A couple of times, my father would say she had the prettiest brown eyes he had ever seen, even though hers were green. They would then go on about her eye color after bed, when they thought I was asleep, giggling and laughing.

Anyways, my father had caught her attention writing poetry. Irony was obviously not in my favor, once I realized how polar opposite our poetry was. Mine was a creepy stalker letter; hers was a creepy stalker letter of confessional love, that later turned into some ‘one night of passion’. And voila, seventeen years later here I am, the result of their silly poetry. I prayed I wouldn’t have some night of passion with Your Friend.

Thinking back to it, the note I had stuffed into my book bag after eighth hour, I sighed loudly, my mother hardly glancing my way. She simply continued painting her nails, a pink that matched the color of the roses my father had brought her earlier. Sometimes, I felt as though she thought she was still Prom Queen or something.The slam of the front door made us both look up though.

“Hello,” my sister’s voice cried out, breaking my mother out of her train of thought, barreling into the room like a torpedo. Her luscious blond locks were wound tightly into an eccentric, messy French braid, and her tan skin was glistening gold from a sheer layer of sweat. Her tennis bag was slung over her shoulder.

My mother swiveled around in expensive office chair and beamed when she saw Mindy. “Hey, sweetie. How was practice?”

“Fine. Bjorn taught me this…,” she began, blathering about her new European tennis coach who I honestly did not care about. She swung her bag onto the soft, black couch by the fireplace, and let her muscles give out beneath her, collapsing onto the couch with a ‘humph’. My sister had always been a fierce player, which we learned from a scarring experience I now call ‘the Tennis Ball Torture Fest of 2003’, and I felt bad for the sorry sucker who had to play her.

“-and then he made me run stairs for ten minutes straight! It’s like he thinks I’m going to the Olympics or something,” Mindy cried, throwing her tired, sore arms in the air. I sighed; I already knew what was going to happen next.

“Mindy, sweetie, you are going to play in the Olympics! You are better than the Williams sisters put together! You’re always putting yourself down,” my mother insisted, swatting at my sister lightly. I attempted to roll my eyes, but felt my mother’s gaze on my back and stifled it. My mother hated when I showed the slightest annoyance in Mindy’s constant approval.

I got straight A’s; Mindy got straight A-pluses. I got school vice-president; she got president. And yet here I was, totally messed up but bottling it up inside, listening to my mother coo over yet another one of Mindy’s many accomplishments. Whether it was with Heather, or in the confines of my own home, I was being outshone.

I still loved my sister- I went to every one of her tennis tournaments, taught her how to hide the alcohol on her breath and how to use a tampon, always stayed home with her when she was sick- and yet I felt as though everything was a competition to her. She strived to be first- it seemed as though since I was first being born, she would be first at everything else.

I sighed, and climbed from my spot on the couch. “Well, I’m going to go finish some AP homework.”

“But Auden, we were going to have spaghetti for dinner, to celebrate your sister’s-”

“Just call me down when dinner’s ready,” I insisted, before climbing the stairs. I could still hear their muffled laughter and chatting at the second story landing, something about how Mindy’s boyfriend Tad was already planning to buy their prom tickets. This time I did roll my eyes.

As I trudged into my bedroom, the weight of my book bag digging into my shoulder, I grabbed my laptop from my desk and flopped down onto the polka dot, down comforter of my bed. My fingers flying on the keyboard, I logged into Jackson High’s chat room. It was some stupid thing they had before Twitter and Facebook, but it was a place to talk to other students while remaining confidential.

My username was W.H.girl. Like W.H. Auden, the author. I thought it was a nice play on irony, and had kept that username for almost everything else. As I scrolled through my inbox and messages, a friend request made me stop dead in my tracks.

‘YourFriend836 wants to be your friend!,’ it read in bright blue writing.

***

I went to bed with a sick feeling in my stomach. YourFriend836, Your Friend- it could not be a coincidence. My stomach hurt just thinking about it. It had to be a sick joke. There was no ‘pain in your eyes/ Hidden behind that sun-like smile’... at least, I hadn't let it show that much. Your Friend made me sound like some tortured soul. What I really did not want to admit was that Your Friend was not too far off.

I fell asleep that night curled up in ball, a familiar position from years of family Christmas’s and Thanksgivings. No one knew; I had not told Heather, or Mindy, or my parents. I had never breathed a word of it, just as I promised him.

I remember, once, I had been number one, in his heart at least. In his heart, I was perfection; Mindy was just a tiny whiny toddler who was too sticky and smelly. I was so pure, still smelling of soap and baby powder even at the ripe age of eight.

I fell asleep that night, only to wake up in a nightmare.

Clutching the pink fabric of my underwear, he slid them down my legs, as though he couldn’t stand them between us. I closed my eyes. His mouth attacked at mine again, and I felt his hand slide up the inside of my thigh. I let out a faltering, labored breath as he began to touch me where no man had before.

I felt sick. I felt like, at any moment, I would get ill. My knees twitched and locked with every movement of his hand, and I dug my fingers deeper into his skin, clenching my teeth and crying so hard my chest shook. After a few moments of grunting, I felt him between my thighs.

“Auden, open your eyes,” he insisted, panting. “Look at me.”

I looked up at him, from beneath my lashes, and did not see my uncle. I saw the guy who made me shiver with each touch. I saw the guy who made it hurt to kiss a boy.

When he kissed me, I felt as though my body was shriveling. I felt as though he was sucking everything out of my body like a vacuum. Then his body tensed, pushing himself inside me with a small, slow movement that made my insides curdle.

‘I hate you,’ I thought. ‘Burn in hell.’

When he pulled back, I clenched my eyes shut with discomfort; when he rocked into me again, I bit my lip in pain. It hurt. It hurt, and I was crying, and this was my uncle. I wanted to die.

“Auden,” he whispered again, only this time not in his voice. This time, it was my mother, shaking me awake for school. “Auden, open your eyes. You’re going to be late for school.”

The Nerd Boy

 

"Jesus, who drowned your kitten," Heather asked when she saw me walking to my locker that morning. My hair- in a messy, frizzy, fly-away filled braid that Heather said made Katniss's hair look like a Garnier perfection- and clothes- baggy sweats, an old cheerleading t-shirt, and Nike tennis shoes- made me feel less than beautiful in comparison to Heather's Cucuy Coture pink floral dress and hot pink heels. 

My skin was pasty and pale, and my hands were chalky and dry. My stomach had been unsettled ever since I awoke that morning, although I swallowed the gut ache and choked down my mom's French toast, despite my stomach. The saliva in the back of my throat was like swallowing glue. 

"Thanks, Heather," I said dryly, angrily letting my head hit the metal shell of my locker in frustration when I couldn't open it. 

Heather rolled her eyes and pushed me aside as she effortlessly dialed through my combination, which she had been doing since the first day of freshman year. "No problem, bestie. Now, where, oh where, has my precious Beck gone," she sang, craning her long neck to look through the throng of peers and teachers and cheerleaders and geeks. 

Even though Heather was set on finding Beck, I was looking for Robbie. Robbie Arkwright was the one person who made Heather question herself. The two were always trying to tear each others' throats out, and Heather always made a show of how hot she was. I think she was just stunned that Robbie wasn't envisioning himself all over her like every other testosterone filled football player and prepubescent computer geek in a five mile radius. 

"Hey, Auden," Robbie cried, waving his hand above his head and grinning when he saw me. I waved, and I watched as Heather's frown deepened. 

"Hey! I was just looking for you, actually," I smiled. Heather groaned loudly. Robbie glanced up at Heather, who was at least half a foot taller than him in those heels, and gave her a look that made me stifle a laugh. 

"Hello, Goliath," he acknowledged, nodding at her. 

Heather arched a perfect brow and stared down at him as though he were a bug on the bottom of her shoe. "Peasant," she muttered icily. 

"Gossiping about another STD scare, I see," he smiled, making Heather furrow her brows in distaste. 

"Jacking off to Paula Dean again, I see," she snapped back, before her features lit up and her eyes became trained on Beck Rivers. I had to admit, my eyes did linger on him longer than usual, which meant I stared at him for a good five minutes. He looked to good, like Michael Schoeffling in Sixteen Candles. A leather jacket hung perfectly from his strong arms, and a small smirk tugged at his features, making me blush.

I watched in awe as he, the Beck Rivers, walked-- nay, sauntered-- over, a smile on his face. I knew my breath was stuck in my throat now, as I tried to seem cool and exhale, and breath in that intoxicating smell of dryer sheets and freshly cut grass and something I could only describe as Beck. 

His eyes scanned each of us, Heather, Robbie, and I, before Heather smiled victoriously. 

"Beck! Hey, we were just talking about you," she smiled, her white teeth gleaming in the bright light. 

Robbie, looking between the two of them, scratched his head. "We were...?"

I watched in amusement as Heather elbowed him in the ribs, hard. My eyes flickering up, I noticed Beck watching me. I blushed even hard, so hard I was afraid I popped some important artery in my face.

"What were you talking about," he asked, his eyes holding onto mine for a few more moments before asking, his voice deep and honeyed. 

Heather, raising a brow as she drew up blank, blinked. "Um... Robbie's so jealous of your hair! I mean, I would be too. It's so, uh... I mean, it doesn't look bad! You look hot, and I bet it smells good. Does it smell good? I mean, I'd smell it but then.-"

"It's looks good," I cut in, saving her more possible embarrassment. Heather, Heather Gibbs the Fabulous, then turned red for all she was worth, her face soon matching the shade of her strawberry red lips. Beck smiled amusedly. 

"Thanks," he chuckled, looking at Heather then me, "Heather. And...?"

"Auden," I offered, sounding much too excited for someone he was just meeting. Catching that excitement in my voice, I added in a much more nonchalant voice, "Auden Winters."

Beck raised a brow and grinned. "Cool. It sounds like poetry."

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I heard those words roll off his tongue. I knew my face had drained of my color, when Robbie grabbed hold of my arm to keep me steady. I don't think Beck or Heather noticed, because they began chatting about something I couldn't hear. My ears just rang, echoing those words. Poetry. 

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 04.04.2013

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