The Dealer

 

 

'Lucy Edwards is a peculiar creature,' Nix thought to himself as he watched her from afar. She twirled those dark strands around her finger subconsciously, a worn weathered copy of The Pact in hand. A depressing read on a sunny day made for an odd match. Lucy Edwards was an odd match. 

 

He stalked her, from beneath light lashes as she turned a page with the slenderest of fingers, her eyes darting to the next page feverishly. 'He gets out,' Nix thought, picturing that last chapter of the book as Chris opened the letter left behind by beautiful, pregnant, dead Emily. He mentally thanked his mother for forcing him to read 'something not created for horny teenage boys who have too much free-time'.

 

The autumn weather was something refreshing, as Nix breathed in the cool crisp air and watched that peculiar creature. She was a strange kind of beautiful, that kind of unique beautiful that made you want to stare and stare and stare. She looked like a wood nymph, with those dark features and the way nature seemed to surround her. She leaned against the trunk of a tree, which cast a dark shade over her and made that olive skin look like sunshine. He couldn't look away. Jesus, he was a creep!

 

"Hey, Nicky," Matt cried, throwing a French fry in his friend's face. Nix, blinking out of his trance, looked up, blushing when his friend raised a brow in interest. "Jesus, kid, I could've chopped off a finger and you wouldn't have noticed!"

 

Nix, wanting so badly to catch one more glance of Lucy, picked the fry off the grated table and popped it in his mouth, grinning when his friend grimaced. "Sorry, I was watching-"

 

Just then, Amy almost torpedoed into them, her eyes wide and excited. They looked like bright blue Christmas lights, the way they glittered and shone with animation. 

 

"Guys! Kingsley Abrahams just got kicked out of school," she cried excitedly, falling into an empty seat and helping herself to Matt's French fries. 

 

"What," Matt cried, his jaw dropping. Splatters of ketchup sat on his bottom lip, looking like blood. 

 

Amy nodded excitedly, her amber-orange hair bouncing with each head bob. "He got in a fight! Shit, we're out a dealer!"

 

Matt, covering her mouth with his hand, shushed her, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his dark brows in warning. "Say it a little louder and we might just have the campus police on our asses."

 

Amy, nodding embarrassedly, let her eyes wander to Nix. She took in that copper blond hair, and toned arms that drove her mad. His eyes were like melted Rolos, gold and brown and some shade she would never be able to place. A small smile tugged at her lips, which were pink thanks to the tube of Baby Lips that promised her smoother lips. 

 

'Not that he would ever notice,' Amy thought, her eyes still trained on the ever-oblivious Nick Keating.

 

The news of Kingsley Abrahams had traveled faster than wildfire, everyone buzzing with different versions of the story. Amy had heard from Jessica Marks, who had heard from Anna Fields, who had heard from Gage Petty, who had heard from a friend of a friend of Kingsley's that Kingsley was supposed to make a deal. Appearantly, the buyer was Eric Sanders-- the Golden Boy of Hamiltom High and Nix's football team mate-- who was too good for any drug Kinglsey had. At least, that's what Amy had heard. 

 

When Eric insisted the drugs-- Amy had heard it was anything from weed to tablets that were so bad, they didn't even have a name-- weren't good enough, Kinglsey snapped. Everyone knew he was higher than a kite-- Eric being one of everybody-- and yet Eric pressed the buzzed junkie until Kingsley snapped. 

 

Amy, hoping to catch Nix's attention, brought her fingers to Matt's hair. Running those manicured nails across his scalp, she hoped to look seductive and tempting. Nix didn't even blink. 

 

"Ames," Matt groaned, closing his eyes and smiling. Nix grabbed another fry from Matt's tray, grinning despite how the lovey-dovey stuff was getting old. Amy, admitting defeat, dropped her hand and let it fall on top of Matt's. She was a horrible girlfriend, she decided, looking into Matt's eyes. The blue color had nothing on Nix's Rolo eyes.

 

"So, when's he coming back to school? I'm already in need of a buzz," Nix asked, changing the subject. He had the perfect oppurtunity to watch Lucy, he realized, since Amy sat, blathering away and blushing every few seconds, at an angle where it looked like he was actually listening. 

 

His eyes focused on Lucy once again. Zoning out every word Amy uttered, he watched Lucy begin to tear up, shutting the book with a sigh he wished he could have heard. She had read the last page. He knew it, before she looked up and met his eyes, those greyish-brown eyes of hers glistening wet with tears. Nix, a smile tugging at his lips, watched in disappointment as she looked away, like a spooked deer. 

 

 She stood, gathering her garble of scattered pens and film strips and an old antique camera that always seemed to hang around her neck like a Christmas decoration on a tree. Lucy looked like a forgotten doll, her wild dark waves matted, her cheeks rosy and flustered, those grey-brown dark eyes wide. She only reached Nix's shoulder. The jeans she wore hugged every inch of those legs, making Nix swallow that saliva that had pooled in his mouth, and the baggy sweatshirt she wore probably smelled like her. It was official: Nix Keating wanted Lucy Edwards. Badly.

~~~ 

 

Lucy held the Polaroid up to her eye, smiling slightly at the mess of humanity in front of her. Kenna Grier smiled widely, unaware of the camera snapping her picture, as she was cradeled in her boyfriend's arms. They looked like Barbie and Ken, all smiles. Lucy had plenty of those photos. 

 

Her eyes scanned the courtyard until she found the two teachers, who were married to each other and forced to work in the same school, fighting. Lucy could almost hear them, over the chatter of high school drama and scandals and the whistling of the grass as the breeze blew through the courtyard, something about 'Henry having to be locked in a cage for eight hours a day!'. Lucy could only hope Henry was their dog. 

 

She clicked the photo, smiling as it slid out of the printer and into her hands. After a few moments, she glanced at the picture and smiled again. Mrs. Probasco, her thin blond hair in a ratty bun that was barely holding against the nape of her neck, held her mouth in a solid 'O'; creases sprinkled around her mouth and between her eyes. Her hands were blurs, moving fluuidly through the air before the picture could process. 

 

Mr. Probasco, balding and red in the face, was caught right when he began to tear his glasses off his face. Watery blue eyes reminded Lucy of the watercolors in her mother's studio; the checkered red shirt he wore seemed much more vivid, like a poppy in a cotton field. 

 

Lucy sighed, smiling at the picture, proud of herself. This, this organized chaos, was beautiful. Sure, they were angry now, but Lucy could picture them, hours later, snuggling in bed as Henry, their rat terrier, laid at the edge of their bed like a prince. 

 

She could spend hours out here, people-watching and snapping candid photos. One more, she decided, her eyes pivoting around the courtyard until they locked onto someone in particular. Now, he was a mystery. 

 

Rough, ragged, poor. Handsome, ignorant, and maybe a bit of a secret philanthropist? Sure, she had seen Nick Keating bullying a few of the freshman that dared to walk through the senior hallway, but she had also caught him shuffling all of his siblings to the elementary and middle schools, like a mother hen. So, the big bad football playing bully had a sweetspot? An Achilles heel? The thought was slightly silly, as Lucy began picturing him with an apron tied around his muscular hips and a hen's beak, scolding his little brother for cursing or putting his elbows on the table. 

 

She giggled to herself, before bringing her camera to her eye and pressing the button before she could stop herself. She caught a photo of him, his mouth stretched in a chuckle. His head tilted upwards, like he wanted the gods to hear his laughter, and the white pearls that posed as teeth were glinting in the sunlight. He looked... vulnerable, a happy sort. Lucy smiled at that note, before catching his eye as she set her camera on the ground. He offered her a crooked smile that he probably gave every girl with an IQ less of five, and Lucy rolled her eyes. So much for vulnerable.

The Misunderstood

 

 

Kingsley Abrahams sat in the chair outside the principal's office, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his expression bored. The typing tap tap of the secretary's fingers on the keyboard made him exhale loudly. Not even allowed his iPod, he had been listening to that stupid typing for the past twenty minutes. His father, wearing a business suit and tie, had been trying to convince Principal Tate to let him off with a week's suspension, but after campus police found his stash in his bookbag, he was looking at a month. Not that Kingsley was complaining. 

 

Hamilton High was the place stoners and emos went to die. They came to Hamilton, and after the first week they were wearing polos and reading Jane Eyre for fun. Except for Kingsley and Lucy, his stepsister, everyone at Hamilton looked like they stepped right out of a fucking American Eagle catalogue, complete with bitchy cheerleaders and football playing asswipes like Nick Keating and Eric Sanders. How... stereotypical. 

 

With another eyeroll, Kingsley flicked the lint off his jacket, only to look up and see Amanda. Was it possible for a cheerleader to seem so... appealing? Even Kingsley wanted to touch those long tan legs, which was saying something. With her blond, curled hair in a bouncy ponytail, Amanda Nichols was something out of the movies. 

 

'God help us all,' Kingsley thought bitterly, watching as Amanda began stapling charity food drive flyers to the push-board in front of the main office, catching a view from the large glass window, 'the blond has a brain. It's a sign of the apocalypse.'

 

Just then, as Amanda looked up at him and softly smiled, the dimples in her tan cheeks deepening, the principal's office door opened. Out walked Mr. Abrahams, adjusting his tie and smiling nicely at Principal Tate, and he stood in front of his son, a frown on his face. 

 

"We'll talk about this in the car," Kingsley's father promised, before shaking Mr. Tate's hand and leading his son, the way a shepard leads a stray lamb, to their car. Kingsley was already looking forward to the lecture he was going to recieve, and happily put his earbuds in. He was going to need them.

~~~

"So," Lucy grinned evilly, falling into the navy beanbag chair on the floor of Kingsley's bedroom, "did you really teach Mary Jenners how to Shotgun?"

 

Kingsley, rolling his eyes and throwing a dirty sock in his stepsister's face, managed to smile half-heartedly. "It was Candace Bayers, and I only taught her how to roll a blunt. Get your shit together, Luce," he teased, closing the Calculus text book he had been religiously staring at, hoping to soak up some type of information with no such luck.

 

Lucy, laughing quietly, curled up comfortably in the beanbag, watching as her brother's face became solemn once again. Since their parents had started dating when the two were in eighth grade, Lucy had found herself in a comfortable big-brother-little-sister relationship with Kingsley, even when he was more annoying than Chico, Mr. Abraham's yappy chihuahua. 

 

"What'd your dad say about it," she asked in a much more serious, quiet voice. Kingsley shrugged, sitting up on his bed and biting his bottom lip. 

 

"The usual. How I'm a failure and will never get into Harvard, like he did. I will never have a successful lawyer job, like he does."

 

Lucy, raising her brows in interest, sat up a bit, waiting for her stepbrother to continue. 

 

Kingsley, sighing, continued. "Well, then I told him I want to be a drug dealer when I get older. So, I've been practicing the art."

 

Lucy, her smile twitching, looked at her stepbrother seriously. "You know he just-"

 

"Wants what's best for me," he interrupted, his eyes darkening before he snapped, "I know, Luce, okay? I just said it to piss him off."

 

"Yeah," she muttered, "you seem to do that a lot."

 

Kingsley, rolling his eyes, threw the Calculus book onto the floor, making Lucy flinch. 

 

“I know, as much as it pains for you to understand this, Lucy, you’re not my mom. I know you think ‘Poor, Kingsley, he has no motherly condolence’, but really, I’m fine. I’ve heard this shit from my dad, I don’t need to hear it from you,” he snapped, watching as those large brown eyes watered. As if to rub salt on the wound, he angrily added, “I’d say go bug one of your friends, but I just remembered: you don’t have any.”

 

Lucy, her face scrunching up in hurt, jumped from her spot on the beanbag, her eyes filling with tears she never meant for. The sleeves of her baggy sweater rose up in the process, exposing the words written in dark marker on her arms. Creep. Freak. Loser.

 

“I just... I just want you to be okay,” she muttered, before wiping at her eyes and quietly sidestepping the book he had all but thrown at her. Kingsley didn’t exhale until the door latched shut behind her, and the room was silent except for the whir of the ceiling fan.

~~~

Dinner made Kingsley want to slit his wrists. The awkwardly angry tension at the table made him on edge, as he fed scraps of pot roast to Chico and rearranged the mashed potatoes on his plate to make crude pictures.  

 

The sound of plates and forks scraping against each other was slowly going to drive him to the brink of insanity, he decided, as he began putting spoonfuls of peas in his gravy. His father, brows furrowed and frown tugging at his wrinkled features, glared at him from the head of the table. 

 

“So, I got an A on my-,” Lucy began, only to be cut off by an enraged Richard Abrahams. Richard, a Harvard graduate, rubbed at the stubble that crept along his jawline before snapping at his son.

 

 “You’re going to volunteer,” he said stiffly, glaring at Kingsley and almost daring him to challenge his father. Lucy’s mother, Claire, looked up from her plate, her features sheer mirror imagery to her daughter’s- same dark eyes, sable hair, olive skin.  

 

Kingsley glared at his father; they had already discussed his punishment: no hanging out with friends (he scoffed at that one; what friends?); he was only allowed to go to and from school, no stops between; no personal laptop for two weeks.... the list could go on and on. 

 

“Dad, I already told you-”  

 

“Do not interrupt, Kingsley Harris,” his father boomed. For once, Kingsley listened to his father. “You’re lucky your principal and I reached an agreement. We decided you are going to volunteer after school- reshelving the library and cleaning up campus.”

 

 “Aren’t those the kind of things-- I don’t know-- librarians and janitors do,” Kingsley asked smartly. He could not believe his father. He hadn’t even started the fight! 

 

“Do not talk back to your father, Kingsley,” Claire warned, before dropping a bit of mashed potatoes on her tie-dyed t-shirt. The golden bangles on her wrist jingled in the silence. For an artist, she was... zany. 

 

She always wore turquoise rings, one on each finger, and those jingly golden bangles. Her hair, in braids and knots and crimped curls, sat on top of her head in a bun.  

 

“That’s how a conversation works,” Kingsley grumpily mumbled, before standing from the table and clearing his plate into the miniature dog’s food dish. 

 

“Kingsley! Get back in here,” his father called after him. Kingsley wasn’t listening anymore. He was just craving. Craving the high.

 ~~~

The next day before first block, Amanda Nichols, her stomach heaving once more as she threw up the residual bits of the Slim Fast shake she had downed earlier, shook as her head hovered over the toilet. Her cheerleading uniform had been... ill-fitting lately, she realized one night when a bulge of fat had been exposed while practicing the splits in her bedroom. 

 

The sound of the bathroom door opening made her jump from her spot on the cool, tile floor of Hamilton High’s public girls’ restroom, and wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. 

 

“Mandy,” Amy Herring’s familiar voice echoed off the linoleum tiles and plaster ceilings. Amanda let out a sigh of relief, and flushed the toilet before walking out the stall. Amy, her blue eyes wide and shining in the light, looked as though she was going to cry. 

 

“Amy? What’s wrong,” Amanda asked, coming closer to her friend and gently wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Amy exhaled loudly, catching wind of the vomit on Amanda’s breath. 

 

“Ugh... it’s Matt. And Nix,” Amy admitted. Amanda nodded in understanding. Amy had been in love with Nix since... well, before anyone could ever really remember. Amanda nodded, gesturing for her to continue.  

 

“Well... I don’t know, Mandy. Nix doesn’t even notice me! And Matt... the kid is killing me. He’s too sweet!”

 

Amanda, chuckling, went to the sink and turned on a faucet. Cupping ice cold water in her hands, she brought the handful to her mouth and slurped it up greedily, swishing it around her mouth to get the taste of regurgitated Slim Fast out of her mouth. 

 

After grabbing a disposable paper towel and wiping her face, she grinned. “Amy, you’re complaining about a guy being too sweet. I don’t know about you, but that’s relatively unheard of-”

 

As she braced herself to continue, the door to the bathroom swung open, and all three girls froze. Amy, her eyes narrowing in disgust, glared as Lucy Edwards stood in the doorway, a blush spreading through the smaller girl’s cheeks like wildfire. Her tiny, petite frame looked almost like a statue, frozen in fear. 

 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Amy muttered, before pursing her lips and digging through her purse to find a shade of pink lip gloss she was sure Nix would have to notice. Lucy, as though just realizing she was out of the red zone, scampered past the two cheerleaders and into an open stall.  

 

After a few awkward moments of Amy smearing on lipgloss in the graffitied bathroom mirror, and Lucy peeing-- a surprising amount for such a tiny girl-- Amy and Amanda turned as Lucy opened the stall, the sound of the flushing toilet bouncing off the walls loudly. Both cheerleaders-- Amanda and Amy-- watched as Lucy rolled up the sleeves of her baggy, black sweater to reveal words written on her arms in Sharpie, and began to wash her hands. No one said a word, and yet they were all thinking the same thing: awkward. 

 

When Lucy finally made her way to the door, Amanda jumped.

 

 “Lucy,” Amanda blurted, making the little girl flinch.

 

Lucy turned, her muddy eyes looking up at the two slightly intimidating girls that towered over her, and Amanda sighed in defeat. 

 

“Look, could you tell Kingsley to meet me in the main hall for probation after school? I’m not, like, doing probation, or anything, I’m just a volunteer.  I’m supposed to help him out, and...,” Amanda trailed off, realizing she was rambling. Lucy, a small smile tugging at her plump lips, nodded.  

 

‘Great,’ Amanda thought sarcastically, her eyes filing with plastic niceness. She already knew her day was going to suck. 

 ~~~

Lucy, smiling as she made her way to her stepbrother’s locker, was excited to tell Kingsley the girl he had not so secretly coveted was going to be stuck with him for four hours after school, but was stopped short when Nick Keating almost bull-dozed into her. It happened so quickly, before she could respond, her books and journal fell to the floor, scattering on the ground with a thump.

 

Nick, cursing, crouched. Lucy, still a little stunned, joined him on the floor, gathering stray gel pens and scraps of poetry she had tucked into her copy of The Great Gatsby.

 

“God, I’m sorry,” Nick sighed, his eyes meeting hers as he handed her a red spiraled notebook. A small, charming smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Lucy felt herself blush. She was so busy blushing, she hadn’t even noticed he had slipped the journal-- the one he had watched her pour her heart and soul into, the one she never let anyone see-- into the pocket of his book bag.

 

“I-It’s fine. I would say I meant to do that, to impress you, but...,” she joked weakly, trailing off as she looked into those golden brown eyes. Nick chuckled, his fingers brushing against her as he handed her the last of her strewn things, and scanned the floor to see they had gather everything up. Helping her stand, Nick brushed his hands on the back of his jeans. His hands were moist, sweaty, Lucy noticed. 

 

“Hey, I’m impressed you read,” he shrugged, tapping on the cover of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece. Lucy grinned, tucking a stray zany curl behind her ear. 

 

 “You read Gatsby,” she asked, trying and failing to hide the surprise in her voice. 

 

 “Of course!  Gatsby’s my boy,” he joked, making a small smile tug at the shy girl’s lips. Nick, his heart pounding madly against the walls of his chest, wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans again, glad Lucy hadn’t noticed. She looked beautiful, he thought, using a word he only saved for those who really were. 

 

 Her dark and sable, crazy curls fell onto those slim shoulders, the ones he really wanted to kiss. Her muddled brown eyes were things you only expected to see on puppies and baby deer- so innocent and clear and crazily beautiful he had to clear his throat and tear his eyes away to keep from saying something stupid.

 

 “I... I have to go,” Lucy said quietly, tearing Nick right out of some dirty daydream involving those innocent eyes. 

 

“Right,” he nodded, about to walk off. Halfway down the hallway, he stopped, Lucy still standing where she did earlier. He suddenly loomed over her again, those broad shoulders and tall physique shadowing her.

 

“Did you like it,” he asked, searching her face. Confused, she furrowed her brows. 

 

“Like what?”

 

“Picoult. Did you like The Pact?”

 

He watched those lips draw up into the biggest smile he had seen on her, and felt his heart lighten to the weight of a feather. He thanked his mom, one more time.

 

The Journal

 

 

Nix stared at the old, worn notebook in hand, promising to remember the way she looped her y’s and didn’t dot her i’s or j’s. He may have been holding the thing more intimate  than the red, silken panty set he always envisioned her wearing underneath those dark, black sweaters and old Chuck Taylor’s. It was killing him-- to open or not to open, that was the question. 

 

 He didn’t know what compelled him to take the journal. The way she batted those lashes, the way she smelled so fresh... Those were the things racing through his mind as he slipped that worn thing into his bag. 

 

 He touched the frayed, soft edges of the pages, wondering how many times Lucy herself had touched each one. He could just picture those slim fingers turning each one, sticking out her tongue as she madly scribbled words he was dying to read. 

 

 She had doodled, all over the dark purple cover, little stars and flowers and skulls and hearts. Lucy didn’t seem like the type to draw those things, but they weren’t just little silly scribbles girls in second grade put on notes they gave to their crushes’.  They were good- with thorns on the roses and shading on the skulls- better than anything he had ever seen. Staring at those hearts, which she had shaded and made pop off the page, he finally turned to the first page. What he saw shocked him.

 

 I know I’m supposed to love them, because... well, I don’t even know why I’m supposed to. Most guys here haven’t even heard of Sòley or Trinity College Dublin, let alone xx or Winter's Bone. I feel as thought just sitting in the same classroom as them will lower my IQ.

 The girls here-- Amy and Jenny and Leah and all the other blond, stereotypically perfect girls everyone secretly hates-- locked me in the janitor’s closet last week. Michael Brown was in there too. We talked about the Pythagorean Theorem and his newest science project until the janitor let us out.  I felt bad for him, Michael, I mean; in the daylight, I saw his glasses were bent, and his nose was bloodied.

 And why the hell does everyone call them by their full names, the populars, I mean?! Amy Herring isn’t any more intimidating; Nick Keating isn’t any more brutish; Amanda Nichols isn’t any more... whatever the hell Amanda is. I was thinking something along the lines of a nun swayed the wrong way. 

 I think it’s some psychological thing; instead of peeing on every tree and claimed homecoming date, guys call each other by their last names as though they’d forget them if they didn’t. 

 I think Amy just likes hearing herself talk, say her full name. Herring. Isn’t that a fish? 

 

Nick couldn’t deny the way his heart squeezed in his chest when he read that. Lucy Edwards thought he was brutish. The thought made him feel bad, and... rejected. When was the last time he had felt that feeling of rejection? Sixth grade when Amy refused to give him a Valentine’s Day card?

 

Lucy Edwards had been locked in the supply closet Nix and a couple of other team mates had shoved Michael into. He was the ass who bloodied Michael’s nose and bent his glasses.

 

Skipping pages-- pages of those dot-less i’s and j’s, and drawings he had to stare at for a few minutes before fully understanding how much detail she put into each, and the way she looped the y is Lucy-- he found one entry much more recent. Just from the day before. 

 

Kingsley got in another fight. I think it was with Eric Sanders, but I’m not sure. These days, I’m not sure of anything. I’m not sure if I can be... good. 

Somedays, I feel dark, bad. Is that normal? Then again, a girl pouring her heart and soul and inner deepest thoughts onto a single sheet of college ruled paper isn’t normal. 

Sometimes I wonder if other people think like me. 

I think dancing in the rain is fun.

I think dark chocolate is the best thing in the world, besides Hugh’s Burgers. 

I think curly hair means the person has much more intelligence. You know, they have so much intelligence it sends their hair into spirals. That’s what I told the girls at St. Mary’s so they’d stop teasing me in second grade. It didn’t work.

I also think my father finally married Liza. I’m not a huge fan of her-- neither is Mom or Kingsley, from what I’ve told him-- but I’m happy for my father. He finally found someone as horrid as he is....

I think.... 

 The thought is vain, because I have Kingsley and my mother and a journal to scribble in all day without someone dissecting and judging me, but I think I need a friend.

 

Nix felt as though a cold, iron hand had clamped onto his stomach. This wasn’t just some silly, daydream journal. This was Lucy’s deeper, inner thoughts, one’s no one should ever see. 

 

  She wasn’t just bullied-- shoved into supply closets and basically shunned by the whole student body-- she was alone. She was alone, except for that purple spiral notebook Nix now held, feeling as though it was going to burn his hand if he read any further.  

 

As if on cue, to break the ice and lighten the load of the iceberg dangling over Nix’s head at the moment, Amy Herring bounced into the seat next to him, her pale freckled legs peeking out from beneath the short gold cheerleading skirt she adorned. He wondered how long Lucy had sat in that closet, while Amy-- his red-haired, funny, sweet Amy-- sat outside the door, laughing with all the other cheerleaders.

 

“Nix! Hey, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she cried dramatically. She was oblivious to her victim’s thoughts right under her nose, as she drank in those features that made up beautiful Nix. She didn’t seem to notice how he was suddenly second-guessing everything about her. 

 

“Here I am,” he shrugged, slamming the notebook shut and stuffing it into his bag quickly, before she had a chance to ask why he had Lucy Edward’s infamous book of witchcraft and meth recipes and hit list and every other nasty thing people had thought she was carrying around in that notebook, “Crazy how I’d be in my first block class.”

 

Amy, laughing and rolling her eyes, swatted him playfully. “You’re a riot. Look, I need a date.”

 

She said it so flatly, with a straight face, Nix almost withheld a snort. Almost. 

 

“Why’re you coming to me? Matt’s so whipped-”

 

“I am not whipped,” an excited Matt Jenks cried, falling into the seat next to Amy, before planting a giant kiss on her cheek. Amy kissed her teeth to withhold from telling Matt to scram for a few moments.

 

“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted by said slave,” Nix hinted, nudging his friend playfully, “why’re you asking me?”

 

Matt, wrapping his arm around Amy, who rolled her eyes at an angle no one could see, grinned. “I have a hot date.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Nix laughed, “with who? Your grandma?”

 

 “Close,” Matt admitted, “I’m helping my mom plan my cousin’s sweet sixteen. Personally, I had never noticed the difference between taffeta and silk until now.”

 

 Nix, chuckling and shaking his head, raked his fingers through the cropped strands that fell into his eyes. Amy watched the whole time, envisioning herself doing the same thing one day. 

 

 “Said like a true fag,” he joked, looking at Amy with a fake sympathetic smile, “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

 

 Matt, rolling his eyes, grinned before his expression faded from one of teasing to one of remembrance. “Speaking of fags, guess which punching bag called in sick? Little dweeb Michael told the office he was suffering ‘chronic depression’,” he said with an eye roll, putting quotes around ‘chronic’ and ‘depression’, “ took a health day and everything! Is that a load of bull or what?”

 

 Matt laughed, but in the moment, Nix was beginning to think it sounded more and more like an ass-- you know, a mule?-- braying. Amy watched as her friend’s gaze shifted from Matt to the bag at his feet, in which he had shoved that familiar purple spiral notebook.

 

 “Look, Matt-” Nix began, only to stop when Kingsley Abrahams walked into the classroom. An eerie, almost supernatural, hush washed over the classroom as that stoner stepped through the tall doorway. 

 

 Those gossiping B-list girls in the back of the classroom looked up, their fake-lash, kohl stained eyes widening. Those jocks and cheerleaders in the middle of the room let their lips tug into satisfied, shameless smiles, each glancing at Eric-- who had only a cut lip to prove the two had scuffled-- Sanders. Eric looked at Kingsley and smiled evilly, from the middle of the room, with all of his A-list friends. And the nerds, in the front row of desks, were too busy hungrily reading their Physics books and history notes. 

 

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Abrahams,” Mr. Marreck, their English teacher, smiled, clapping a hand on Kingsley’s back. Kingsley just glared at the middle row, where Nix and Amy and Matt and Eric Sanders and Leah and Jessica and all the populars sat. Nix had to look down at the engravings ‘PENI$’ and “B.A. is BaddAss’ on the dark top of his desk to keep from blushing. 

 

 Kingsley just smiled a bitter smile that only meant trouble. “Yeah. Didn’t you hear, Mr. M., I was busy making deals behind the school and beating the living snot out of dear old Eric over there?”

 

Everyone’s gaze shifted to Eric, who ducked uncomfortably under the gazes of his peers. Mr. Marreck, clearing his throat and drawing the attention to the front of the room, uncomfortably motioned for Kingsley to sit. Nix couldn’t bear to look up at Kingsley for the rest of the block, and instead focused on the carved letters on his desk. He knew if he looked up, he’d see Kingsley Abrahams staring at him. At the purple spiral notebook that barely peeked out of his book bag.

~~~

Amy Herring sat in her eighth block class, staring  vacantly out the window. ‘Could anything be more boring,’ she thought to herself, rolling her eyes as Mrs. Lang handed back Amy’s C-minus worthy essay about some war no one really remembers, and whose survivors are buried somewhere in the middle of Who-knows-where, Arkansas... or maybe it was Alaska....? Either way, Amy would have rather plucked her eyebrows with a weed wacker than sit through another one of Mrs. Lang’s ‘I’m-so-disappointed-in-your-grades-your-class-has-so-much-potential-I-have-failed-as-a-teacher’ speeches she regularly preached. 

 

Sometimes it sucked being Amy Herring. She wasn’t a blond; her hair was a carrot orange. She was incapable when tanning, instead burning to a point where she looked like a lobster. She was covered in freckles, something she prided herself in despite how they sprinkled across her shoulders like stars in the sky, and across the bridge of her nose more frequently than potholes in the road. 

 

Amy couldn’t simply buy blond hair and tan legs and freckle-free skin. As much as she wanted-- craved-- to look like her best friend, it would never be. From first grade all the way to freshman year, Amy had never felt... pretty. And then, sophomore year, Amy began dating Matt Jenks. 

 

At first, Amy believed she was head over heels for Matt, especially since he was so close to Nix, the guy she told everything. At first, Amy began planning their wedding and naming their fictional children, and kissed Matt at every chance she got because this kid was unbelievable; he thought Amy was flawless. You know, he thought that beautiful cheerleader, who insisted she was ugly, really was beautiful-- crazy, huh? 

 

But then... something changed. Amy couldn’t place a finger on it, but one day she woke up, and got irritated when Matt kissed that little freckle on her shoulder he claimed to love. She woke up, and hated when he wrapped his shoulder around her every chance he got, as though claiming her. 

 

 Amy had always loved Nix. Despite how she felt about Matt, her heart sped up and her palms sweat and she couldn’t stop smiling when she was around Nix. Nix had been her best friend before Matt had been her boyfriend, but Amy found herself wishing she could change that. She found herself wishing Matt was her best friend, and Nix was her boyfriend. Was that really such a bad wish...? Nix was gorgeous, Amy was gorgeous; Nix was comfortable with Amy, Amy was comfortable with Nix. Perfect match!

 

“Pst,” Leah Hopkins hissed, derailing Amy from her thought train, Leah’s blond ponytail falling over her shoulder as she leaned closer to Amy. Although Leah was a cheerleader, she never wore the uniforms to school, instead throwing on Juicy sweats as though it was 2006 all over again.  

 

Amy, sighing and rolling her eyes, leaned in closer, grateful Mrs. Lang was on another ‘pity-my-pathetic-cat-filled-forever-alone-life’ rant roll so she wouldn’t get in trouble. 

 

Leah, her eyes lit with excitement, hurriedly whispered into Amy’s ear, her breath hot and rank from the tuna salad she had for lunch.

 

 “You won’t believe it! Mr. Grimms is retiring,” Leah quickly explained. When talking to Leah, it seemed as though everything she said was exciting, thanks to her use of exclamations and  eyebrow spasms. 

 

Mr. Grimms, the creepy drama director who always smelled like boiled cabbage and cigars, was nothing to get excited over. He was fat-- hammy, with sausage link fingers and dimpled knuckles-- and overly sweaty. 

 

“So...?,” Amy trailed off, bored as she began examining her pale pink manicure. Her nails were like little seashells-- so perfect and tiny. 

 

 “The new teacher, Mr. Barrow or something, is hot! I mean, he is fireman hot! Principal Tate was giving him tours around the school during lunch!” Leah beamed. Amy frowned. 

 

How did Leah know this? More importantly, how did Amy not know this? Furrowing her brows, Amy leaned back in her seat. She had spent all week trying and failing to gather the courage to ask out Nix. Well, ‘only-as-friends’ she’d insist-- although he’d simply have to have her after she convinces him to sneak out of the boring art gallery opening her mother was in charge of, and drive him to the abandoned boardwalk, where all the kids would go to party and hook up and get drunk; she had spent so much time planning she hadn’t even gotten a chance to catch up on everything. 

 

Amy waved off Leah, as Mrs. Lang began crying-- honest, salt-water tears Amy had no idea how to well-- and excused herself for a moment. Amy glanced over at Leah once more, trying to recall anything about a retiring Mr. Grimms and a new hot teacher. Had the infamous Amy Herring really lost her touch when it came to gossip? 

 ~~~

 Nix stood in front of Lucy’s locker, his heart beating madly and his palms beginning to dampen his jeans as he wiped them on his thighs repeatedly. He held Lucy’s journal in one hand, a noose in the other. He knew, after admitting he had purposely taken her journal, he’d never have a chance with Lucy; coming clean about everything was basically romantic suicide. 

 

 When he saw her walking down the halls, he wanted to run. She walked alone, like usual, her eyes focused on the old, worn Chuck Taylor’s on her feet. When she looked up, when her eyes met his, her face scrunched up, reminding him of a newborn the way her face collected color and her eyes crinkled into little half moons. 

 

“Hey,” Nix began, awkwardly holding up a hand in greeting before placing it at his side a little too quickly. He cursed himself and his reputation when people began giving him odd looks as he waited in front of her locker. 

 

“Hey...?” Lucy quizzically looked at him, as though trying to decide if he had ran over her dog or something, when she caught sight of the journal in hand. “Oh, I’ve been looking everywhere for this! Where’d you find it?!”

 

When Nix didn’t answer, and instead shoved his hands into his pocket after an ecstatic Lucy Edwards claimed her journal, Lucy knew something was off.

 

“I... uh..., well, I kind of took it. I mean-”

 

“You took it?! What the... why,” she cried, her voice something between an angry whisper and a confused hiss, her brows furrowing to form a crease. Her brown eyes were wide with something like hurt, although Lucy knew what to expect from people like Nick Keating and Amy Herring.

 

“I... I thought they were your History notes,” Nix insisted, even though he knew she was smarter than that. Lucy looked enraged. He watched that little girl, eyes narrowing, lips pursing, as she balled her fists repeatedly. 

 

“What? You... you read it!? Did you show anyone,” she hissed, glaring up at him. Nick obviously didn’t understand how important this notebook was to her. She confessed everything into it, and he had betrayed that confidentiality by sticking his big nose where it didn’t belong. 

 

“No! No, of course not,” Nix insisted, his hands raising as though to shield himself, as though he were afraid she would hit him. 

 

 “Why don’t I believe that,” Lucy barked sarcastically, before turning on her heel, only to realize she needed to get to her locker. She felt her cheeks heat to a possible face-melting degree before she practically shoved Nix out of the way. 

 

“Wait! Lucy, please, can I just... can I explain? We could meet at Steam, after school. I... I just need to explain,” Nix insisted, her back facing him as she opened her locker, frustratedly swinging it open to it slammed into the neighboring one.  

 

“Please,” Nix tried again. Lucy was quiet for a moment. It was no secret Nick’s family had... financial troubles. Although the pretty-yet-rugged popular boy somehow managed to float mainstream, Lucy was always alone. Maybe, she thought to herself,  maybe she could pay him off.  But she soon dismissed that idea, figuring she’d be no better than Amy Herring. Finally, she sighed. 

 

 “Steam. Four-thirty,” she sighed in defeat, before gathering the last of her things and slamming her locker door shut.

The Apology

 

 

Amanda Nichols had never had a sip of alcohol in her life. She had never smoked a joint, or popped a couple of those tablets that were passed around at Jessica Hayes’s parties. She had never had sex, or sold vital organs to serve some deadly addiction. Bulimia wasn’t some crime; it was a way of life teens were committing to all over America. Nowadays, it was almost normal. Having bulimia didn’t exactly make her an Indie-500 speedster of the typical five-six, tan, blonde, seventeen year old cheerleading American teenage world.

 

Amanda knew she was boring, more boring than most girls anyways, but didn’t mind. That banality she possessed kept her out of trouble, which was more than she could say for Kingsley Abrahams.

 

  Principal Tate had personally asked Amanda-- considering she was a chairman, or in this case chairwoman of the student council, co-captain of the cheerleading team, homecoming princess, honor roll student, and daughter of Henry Nichols, the man who donated a quarter of a million dollars every year to the school since Amanda’s older sister Samantha graduated from Hamilton High-- and she simply couldn’t say no.

 

Amanda sat in the library, waiting for that stoner to arrive. When he did finally arrive-- book bag slung sloppily over his shoulder, papers falling out; hoodie reeking of pot; hair tousled and falling into his eyes-- Amanda felt her stomach drop like someone had just fed her cinderblocks.  He looked buzzed-- his eyes bloodshot, green bits of weed stuck between his teeth-- and Amanda knew this probation/possible-hell was going to be miserable.

 

“Mandy Pandy,” he grinned, the right side of his mouth drawing into this lazy smile that made Amanda grimace, “I’m stuck with you as my warden?”

 

When Amanda didn’t respond, and instead rolled over a cart of returned books, Kingsley grinned. “Hot. You gonna put me in handcuffs and shit?”

 

“You’re funny, Kingsley,” Amanda said dryly, her hazel eyes meeting his blue.  He had sleepy, bloodshot eyes, heavily hooded and fanned with dark lashes. Those dark, thick brows bunched together like creeping caterpillars. Amanda had to look away from keep from blushing too hard.

 

“I try,” Kingsley shrugged, laughing. He watched those manicured fingers gently stamp each book, stacking them neatly on the cart like some sort of one woman factory. As stoned as he was, he couldn’t help but wonder how impossibly delicate this girl was. Maybe not emotionally-- emotionally, Amanda Nichols might as well have been a steamroller-- but her fingers looked so light, like butterflies and other girly shit.

 

“Hey, Kingsley, are you going to help? Or should I just call Tate and tell him this is a waste of time,” Amanda snapped, glaring at him from across the table. Kingsley rolled his eyes.

 

“Jesus, Amanda, who shoved a cork up your ass? We have two-and-a-half hours to do nothing but shelve books. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get something from the vending machine,” he smiled, as nicely as he could manage, reaching across the table and twirling a curly strand of her high-ponytail. Amanda, frowning and slapping his hand away, crossed her arms in front of her chest.

 

“For your munchies,” she cried, trying her best to sound mean and hurtful. Kingsley only smirked.

 

“You know it. Want any Ho-Ho’s... well, besides Amy Herring,” he winked, before drumming on the tabletop dramatically and jumping from the table. Amanda, her mouth open in shock, glared at him as he left the table. She could not believe him! This was his stupid probation session, and yet she was the one re-stamping books while he went and stuffed his face with diabetes wrapped in Hostess packaging.

 

Frustratedly, Amanda kissed her teeth, before following him. Knowing-- or at least hearing about-- Kingsley, he’d probably try to make a dash for the nearest exit or bathroom, although the latter probably contained some sort of painkiller/inhalant/junkie-contaminated needle. As she stormed out of the library, her white cheerleading shoes squeaking loudly against the glossy linoleum floors, Amanda found herself trying to chase after Kingsley. For  a stoner who supposedly ‘didn’t do gym’, Kingsley was surprisingly fast.

 

“Kingsley,” Amanda cried, craning her neck to catch sight of him. She stood, alone in the hallway, the dim hallways making her look like nothing more than a silhouette.

 

Admitting defeat, Amanda turned, sighing. Her heart almost stopped in her chest when she realized Kingsley was standing right behind her, a Hostess cupcake in hand, a large bite taken out of it. Just the sight of that cream-filled crap made her stomach lurch. Kinglsey chuckled when catching sight of her disgust, and pat her head as though she were a dog.

 

"Try to keep up, princess. You've got tweny-nine more days of this," he grinned, before handing her his half eaten cupcake and sauntering into the library as though nothing had even happened.

 

~~~

Holding a coffee cup nervously, Nix found himself looking into those brown eyes and smiling half-heartedly.

 

“I was kind of hoping brutish was another term you used as endearment,” Nix joked weakly. Lucy could hardly even muster a smile, as she embarrassedly looked at him from across the table of Steam’s. The place smelled of sourdough bread and wheatgrass juice, an odd combination that only added to both’s anxiety.

 

“You weren’t supposed to be looking through my things,” she said in a voice that wasn’t steady, filled with layered anger, and as though to prove her point, pulled her canvas bag closer to her. Nix frowned.

 

“I know. It was very... brutish of me,” he apologized, pausing as he used that rough term of endearment. A smile tugged at his lips, as he glanced down at the cup of steaming black coffee in front of him. He was probably the first person in months to order actual coffee from Steam, instead of that chocolate frappe blonde mochiato crap every Amy Herring and Amanda Nichols of the world drank like clockwork.

 

An awkward silence rippled around Lucy and Nick, like raindrops dropping into a pond. The uncomfortableness was something new to Nix, seeing as he surrounded himself with his kind of people. Watching Lucy from afar had been easy; sitting right across from her, explaining why he had taken her notebook, was like a nightmare come true.  He shyly shifted, and began cracking his knuckles- a nervous habit.

 

When he looked up, he realized Lucy was watching their waitress with an unusual amount of attention. Lucy had her gaze intently set as their waitress-- whose name tag read Jackie, a small unnatural bleach blond with piercings on her lip-- began gathering glass cups off the empty table across them. Jackie cursed, as she counted the two dollars left as tip, audible enough for Nix to make out the words ‘cheap’ and a few vulgar terms.

 

“She has a kid,” Lucy murmured, so quietly, he almost hadn’t heard. Nix, blinking and finding himself looking into those innocent eyes, furrowed his brows in confusion.

 

“Who? The waitress?”

 

Lucy nodded, and signaled for Nix to look in Jackie’s direction. “See the circles under her eyes? She obviously doesn’t sleep at night. And her ankles are a little swollen- maybe from working too hard or maybe from just getting over a pregnancy. And she’d need more than two dollar tips to raise a child.... What do you think,” she asked, glancing up at Nix from beneath her lashes. Nix smiled.

 

“I think she’s an alcoholic,” he mused, taking in Jackie’s smudged eye makeup, and the light ink on her wrist. The stamp on her wrist was almost embroidered into his childhood, like a strand of wool knit into a sweater, he realized, knowing exactly where Jackie had gone clubbing the night before. He watched as she swiftly moved through the tables, the light click of her shoes on the tile floor making him grin. She was wearing sparkly stilettos, ones a normal waitress would never think of wearing.

 

“Oh, really,” Lucy challenged, looking over at Jackie again.

 

Nix nodded, and traced the dark brown coffee ring on the table. “Yeah. She’s still wearing her party shoes. The ink on her wrist is a giveaway. If she isn’t an alcoholic, she’s a clubber. And, those two dollars are probably going to her drinking tab.”

 

The thing about Nix was, he was good at hiding pain. Whatever was nagging him deep down-- he knew those two dollars weren’t going to spent on a child, he knew that stamp wouldn’t wash away for another day, he knew that waitress would have blisters on the heels of her feet-- was buried under that humor he so carefully spurted out of his mouth. Lucy smiled, and and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Nix, watching her and desperately wanting to know what she was thinking, felt his foot brush against hers on accident.

 

“Nick,” she began. He wondered why she never called him Nix like everyone else, and yet he kind of liked hearing her say his name. It sounded like a poem- Nick,  by Lucy Edwards. Within the time thoughts of Lucy writing poetry about him had invaded his brain, Nix hardly even heard her finish her sentence of, “how far did you get into it? My journal, I mean.”

 

Nix uncomfortably let his gaze drop to the bag at her feet. Wetting his lips, he thought back to what Lucy had written on that last page. She needed a friend.

 

“Only the first page. About Amy, and how she likes to hear herself talk,” he smiled teasingly, watching as those rosy cheeks flamed in embarrassment. He could tell Lucy was feeling self-conscious about how she felt towards Amy, and yet Nix felt as though he needed to reassure Lucy. Insistently, he added, “And I think you’re kind of right. About Amy liking to listen to herself talk.”

 

“Oh...,” she whispered, a small smile playing on her lips. “I didn’t mean... I didn’t think any of her friends would end up reading it.”

 

Nix laughed, one that made her feel both self-conscious and bubbly, and raised a dark brow. “It’s okay, Luce. I won’t tell. I promise.” As if to prove his point, he held up a rough, calloused pinkie. Lucy wrapped her tiny, soft, white finger around his, and thought of how warm his skin was.

 

Lucy, hearing herself being given one of Nick Keating’s famous nicknames, grinned, showing off that little gap between two of her side teeth. I like that gap, Nix decided, as his foot brushed against hers again, only this time not so accidentally.

 

“Good. Now, it’s a secret for a  secret. Either you tell me one of yours,” Lucy said with an evil smile, “or I will have to kill you.”

 

Nix raised a brow in play shock. “Luce, my dear, I’m not a very secretive guy.”

 

“Tell me one anyways,” she smiled, her voice light and airy as she rested her chin in her hands, like something from out of an old romance movie, batting her lashes and crossing her legs. Nix grinned, trying to recall some horrible secret he knew Lucy would love.

 

“Um... well, once in second grade, I sent a love letter to my teacher,” he admitted, sheepishly avoiding her eye contact. Lucy seemed like a romantic; she’d probably coo and tell him how sweet he was. So, when she began laughing, Nix was utterly confused.

 

“That’s it?! C’mon, you know some things I would never tell anyone else, and all I get is some second grade crush story. Nick Keating, I expected much more from you.”

 

Nix felt his heart swell as she said his name-- Nick Keating rolling off her tongue-- and hoped she’d say it more. Nick Keating. She made it sound so romantic and special. Nick Keating. Jeez, this kid was over the moon.

 

“Fine... hmh.... Oh, got one,” he cried excitedly. Lucy, raising a brow in interest, watched as his face became and unfamiliarly red shade of embarrassment. She had never seen Nick blush before, she realized, watching his tan face shift colors like a sunset.

 

“Okay,” Nix breathed, “So, in eighth grade... I played Seven Minutes in Heaven with Amber Wilder.”

 

The thought itself was repulsive, and he watched as Lucy grinned. Amber Wilder had nine tattoos, seventeen piercings, and, now, a blooming uterus. Back in eighth grade, she had been pretty enough, and smelled decent. No piercings, or tattoos, or missed periods.

 

“Oh...,” Lucy managed, before erupting in giggles. Her face flushed red, and she giggled even harder, making Nix chuckle. After a snort escaped her lips, they were both laughing hard. Customers around them were staring, granted, and yet the two only laughed harder.

 

“Was it... was it good? Did she try to stick her tongue down your larynx,” Lucy giggled, those red flushed cheeks filling like a full moon as she smiled widely. Nix liked that smile, one he had rarely seen on her. He wanted to Polaroid that moment.

 

“It was...,” Nix began, hoping he didn’t offend Lucy, “probably worse than kissing a walrus. I mean, she had braces, and they kept cutting the inside of my mouth. I had more fun getting stitches when I was nine.”

 

Lucy giggled, and grabbed hold of the ceramic cup in front of her. Nix didn’t ask what it was; the smell coming from it was enough to tell him ‘No way, Jose’.

 

“And who all knows this secret,” Lucy asked after taking a sip of the putrid-smelling green stuff in her mug, licking her lips as though to savor the taste.

 

“Just you, me, Amber and Matt,” he shrugged. Lucy grinned, thinking of how nice it would be to have an inside joke with a friend. Even if it was with Nick Keating, the boy who had so quickly blurred the lines that were placed between her and her bullies.

 

“Good. You know, I think I’m going to write about this, later. Maybe a short story- ‘Lucy Edwards’s Big Date with Superstar Nick Keating’,” she grinned, tucking a wild strand behind her ear.

 

“So this is a date now,” Nick teased, raising a brow. Lucy laughed.

 

“Yes. Haven’t you heard, dear Nick Keating, I’ve been desperately in love with you since eighth grade,” she sighed, feigning nonchalance even though deep down she was still a little nervous.

 

Lucy used the term ‘love’ loosely. She wasn’t even sure if she liked Nick-- he had gone through her personal things, and then began swathing her with little charming smirks and romantic jests-- but she knew beggars couldn’t be choosers. She knew she didn’t have much of a choice, since Nix was one of the few people who acknowledged her existence. Even if he had stolen her notebook, she was grateful he was being so... nice about everything. Funny, even.

 

Nix chuckled nervously, and, although Lucy didn’t know it, thought the same thing. He wasn’t in love, but he loved the idea of being in love with someone so... Lucy. There was not one word in the whole book of Webster’s he could use to describe her. Lucy was Lucy.

 

Just then, the ringing of her cell phone brought them back to reality. Luce the Romantic was Lucy Edwards again, and Surprisingly Nice Nick was the gorgeous Nix Keating again, who, in reality, wouldn’t be seen in Steam with Lucy Edwards because she was weird, and he was popular and gorgeous. The two couldn’t even be seen together, because it would bend the laws of Hamilton High nature. Lucy, blushing, pulled out her phone, and felt the little muscles in her mouth turn down into a frown.

 

“I, um... I have to go,” she said quietly, before jumping from her chair and forbidding herself to look into Nick Keating’s eyes. Nix, confused, watched as she grabbed the bag at her feet-- purple notebook and all-- and scrambled out of Steam faster than he could stop her.

 

He wanted to stop her. He wanted to jump from the table and sprint after her into the busy street. He did not want to sit in the cafe table at Steam, motionless and dazed, because he didn’t know what was going on. He did not want Lucy to leave, especially so abrupt and vaguely, and he felt that presence she possessed, some much character for such a little girl, sift out of Steam like smoke diminishing from a bonfire in the bright starry sky on a summer night.

 

Nix, admitting defeat, exhaled loudly and pulled out his wallet. Before leaving, he remembered to leave more than a two dollar tip for that alcoholic, post pregnant waitress named Jackie.

 

~~~

 

Lucy Edwards sat in the tree, her skinny legs straddling a thick branch of the old oak. Her stomach, twisting in nervousness, dropped to her feet when her mother-- curly hair wildly breaking out of her hair-tie, face furrowed and wrinkled as she deeply frowned, eyes narrowed angrily-- opened the glass sliding door that lead to the backyard garden.

 

Lucy did not want to leave her tree. She, catching her mother’s gaze, let out a frustrated gargling noise that Claire knew meant something along the lines of ‘no’.

 

“Lucy,” Claire Edwards sighed, her face relaxing into some expression that resembled understanding and pity, combing her fingers through the curly strands that had escaped the elastic at the nape of her neck. “C’mon, your father’s almost here. Please, Lucy, get out of the tree.”

 

Lucy shook her head, and began climbing even higher up. For someone of seventeen, she knew she was being childish, but Lucy did not want to go to her father’s for the weekend. She would have much rather sat in her tree for the rest of the night, thinking of Nick Keating and pondering how she could vex her father and wondering what Kingsley was doing with Amanda Nichols right about then, and then complain about the whole thing in her purple journal.

 

The garden was eloquent, something Richard Abrahams took pride in, and filled with a certain je ne sais quoi that Lucy found sickening. Little rustic, charming lanterns hung from rods stuck in the ground, and a little man-made koi pond rippled and gurgled from its little exalted island of little baby blue hydrangeas and little yellow poppies. The tall, old oak Lucy freely hung from sat in the midst of little flowers and little koi ponds and little charming, rustic lanterns, but unlike its surroundings, the oak had not been intended for the garden. The oak, unwanted, was supposed to have been chopped down years ago.  But the oak had grown on Lucy, becoming something real in the midst of the plasticity the Abraham/Edwards clan had so carefully aired.

 

“Lucy... will you please get out of the tree? I know you don’t want to go-”

 

“Not wanting to go is when you have a root canal. Not wanting to go is spending an extra hour after school. This,” Lucy cried, grabbing hold of another branch and swinging, “is begging you. Mother, please don’t make me go.”

 

Claire Edwards, sighing, sat down on the copper-painted, vintage-looking bench that was placed on the little bridge that led to the koi pond. She, those golden bangled jangling around on her wrist, looked up at her daughter in frustration. Claire knew her daughter hated going to her father’s every other weekend, but it was something that Claire knew she’d regret if she let Lucy skip every time.

 

“Please, Lucy. I know you don’t like going-”

 

“I hate going,” Lucy interrupted, crossly glaring down at her mother and sitting down on a thick large branch.

 

“-but your father has been looking forward to this all week,” her mother insisted persistently. Her tired, dark eyes flickered to her daughter, who was sitting in the branch right above her head.

 

“But what about your new gallery dealing? Can’t I stay, for moral support,” Lucy insisted, her features darkening when she caught sight of her father’s car pulling into the circular driveway from high above the topiary hedge that separated the driveway of their old-money built mansion and the vintage, wild-looking garden.

 

“Lucy,” Claire sighed in defeat, “if you go to your dad’s for the night, I’ll tell him you have to be home tomorrow for the opening.”

 

Lucy, her eyes widening with excitement, sat up a bit straighter. “Really,” she grinned, the hope in her voice almost as loud as the slamming of her father’s car door. As if on cue, Lucy heard her name being called, and the garden gate swung open.

 

Lucy looked down at her dad, and grimaced. What, in all honesty, had her mom seen in her dad? Allan Edwards was handsome, sure; he was rich, sure; he was-- and although Lucy questioned this at times-- an all around okay guy. But he was boring.

 

His house, the kind that flaunted new money, was practically made of glass. Everything felt lifeless and cold, like the chrome kitchen and the almost alien bathroom. Everything about her father- from his fancy new sports car, to his house, to Allan Edwards himself- said impersonal.

 

He had grey eyes, the sharp, bluish grey that seemed void of feelings, which Lucy sometimes thought was true. His hair, cropped short, was a silver blond that Lucy used to adore. Lucy used to adore her father, at least until he met Liza Ricci. Lucy parents, who had divorced in third grade, were basically polar opposites, so it was only a matter of time before Allan found someone more like... him. And who was more like him than Liza?

 

Liza looked like a bird. She had a beak nose, causing Lucy to refer to her as ‘Step-Mother Hen’, although the nickname was not one of endearment. Step-Mother Hen was the farthest thing from maternal, by any means, however. Like, once in seventh grade, Lucy had put some tinfoil in the microwave. After the ball of tin erupt into flames, Liza became more worried about the five-hundred dollar machine than the frightened Lucy, who was soaked thanks to the fire alarm sprinklers that were scattered throughout the house.

 

“Claire,” Allan curtly nodded, acknowledging his ex-wife with something that could only be classified as a stiff coldness. When he caught sight of Lucy in the tree, he rolled his eyes. “Lucy Vienna Renee, I texted you an hour ago to be ready.”

 

Lucy, biting the inside of her cheek, swung her legs over the branch of the tree and pushed herself off the branch with an ‘oomph’. “I’ve been ready, Dad. And, I was out with a friend-”

 

“A boy?,” Lucy’s father pounced. When Lucy didn’t respond, her father exhaled loudly.

 

“Did you know about this,” her father asked, turning on Claire Edwards quickly. Claire, finding his paternal instincts slightly comforting, nodded.

 

“Nick is a nice boy, Allan,” Claire insisted amusedly, thinking back to all the things Lucy had mentioned about him, although it wasn't much. Lucy groaned.

 

“Nick is just a friend, Dad,” Lucy insisted, before grabbing the bag at the base of the tree. After giving her mother a hug, Lucy pranced to her father’s car, which was still purring in the driveway like a cat. Only after she slid into the passenger leather seat of her father’s shiny Lexus did Lucy exhale.

 

She watched as her parents then began to fight. Lucy knew it was about the gallery opening the next day, and Lucy’s early departure, and smiled. It was only night with the Step-Mother Hen. How horrible could that be?

The Step- Loser

 

 

Nix, beaming despite his post-date anxiety, pulled into the crunchy gravel driveway that led to the tiny, one-story, grey house. On each side of the drive, weeds had begun to sprout, the yellow heads of the dandelions like little girls with tufts of bright canary hair. Climbing out of his beat-up car, Nix cut through the grass, avoiding the hazardous pile of GI Joe's and jump ropes and sidewalk chalk in the process.

 

 The house always smelled of baking breads and cookies and pies and rain. Nora Keating, a native Minnesotan, reminded him of the Pillsbury Dough Boy, with her pale skin and bubbly giggle. She always seemed to be cooking.

 

 The grass was wet, slick and squeaky underneath Nix’s tennis shoes. With spots of yellowed, dead grass scattered where Jack had left a tarp on the front lawn for almost a month, and little brother threw his bike for almost two weeks, the place was trash. 

 

 Although no one ever cleaned them up, a couple of dented beer cans and empty cigarette packs had been left by the front door. Joining the mess of aluminum cans and empty forgotten Marlboro cartridges, sat the orange, striped, one-eyed, three legged cat the Keatings had named Scooter. Scooter, a pesky stray who often wound up sun-bathing on the rickety front porch of that one-story grey house, mewed and rubbed against Nix’s ankle, purring loudly.

 

 “Hey, you lil’ bastard,” Nix chuckled, petting the orange tabby behind the ear, before opening the door and running his fingers through his hair. “You were supposed to be dead weeks ago.”

 

 Jogging into the house, book bag slung over his shoulder, Nix wove in skillfully between the minefield of soccer cleats and tennis shoes and sandals that cluttered the-- as his mother had insisted all the Beverly Hills wives call it-- ‘foyer’ and dropped his bag onto the floor by the kitchen entrance. 

 

 He could already smell the buttery, fresh bread baking in the oven and smiled widely. Just the thought made his stomach grumble.

 

"Mom," he cried, kicking his shoes off by the white trimmed doorway, looking around the bright living room. Light had somehow crept through the crack in between the curtains, shut purposefully he supposed, making the white walls seem so much louder and brighter. The old, color-threaded couch-- smelling of mothballs and the Febreeze his mother ritually sprayed on it hoping to cover said mothball smell-- sat in front of the TV, which was crackling with black and grey static. Jack, passed out in the ugly beaten blue recliner, snored, an empty beer can in hand.

 

 Nix, shaking his head at the sight of his mother's common law husband, walked through the house, his instincts leading him to the kitchen. He was right of course, finding his mother perched on one of the stools, holding a frozen pack of peas to her cheek. A ripple of horror shot down Nick's spine when he grabbed onto her shoulder, making her jump three feet in the air.

 

"Oh, Nick," his mother gasped in surprise, smiling weakly when she saw it was just her son, the fear in her eyes slowly trickling out, "it's just you."

 

"Mom," Nick began, his throat going dry then. Destitutedly, he wrapped an arm around his mother and pulled the bag of frozen peas from her cheek to see a sharp, red hand print. She avoided his gaze and shook her head.

 

"It was an accident."

 

She was defending him, making excuses for him once again. Nick, angry yet trying to soothe his mother, sighed.

 

"Right, an accident," he grumbled, pulling out a stool also, "like how it'll be a huge accident when I ram my foot up his as-"

 

Just then, the buzzer rang through the house, announcing the baking bread was done. As if on cue, the tumbling and rumbling of thunderous feet descended down the stairs. The three kids-- Laker, Harry, and Gina-- all blond and big-eyed, watched as their mother pulled the hot baking pan from the oven. Spotting the peas on the counter, Laker bound into the kitchen.

 

"Was he kickin' you around again," he asked, his blond brows pulling together in confusion. Nix shook his head and clapped a hand on his little brother's shoulder.

 

"Isn't he always," Nick asked sarcastically, watching as his mother stiffened, her back facing them as she set the pan on the cooling rack. Laker, looking into the living room, flared his nostrils.

 

"Mom, this is bullshit," he cried, the younger two Keatings looking at each other knowingly; another quarter in the swear box. Just then, the creaking in the living room had them all stiffening, Nick edging just a bit closer to his mother.

 

"Nora," Jack whined, his voice husky from sleep, his heavy, thudding footsteps bouncing around the kitchen with an unspoken weight heavying on each Keating's mind. Nick was protectively wrapping an arm around his mother; Laker ushering the youngest two Keating's up the stairs that lead to their attic bedroom. "Nora, are you almost damned done. I'm starving-"

 

He began, only to catch Nix's eye as he reached the doorway of the kitchen, shutting his mouth.

 

"Mom," Nick smiled, never tearing his eye from his mother, "go take a rest. I'll get Jack's dinner."

 

Nora, looking between the two men, nervously placed a hand on his shoulder before Jack nodded towards the door. Reluctantly, she edged towards the door until she was almost hugging the entryway. Nick, steeling himself, grabbed the tupperware conainer from the fridge, filled with old, jiggly molded gravy and cold roast beef. After plopping it onto a plate, and grabbing a dinner roll from the container on the counter, Nix all but threw it at the older man.

 

"Eat up, asswipe," he grimaced, watching as those bloodshot eyes wavered before landing on the cold, unappetizing plate.

 

"Kid, I'm not after your mother for her week old roast beef and hockey-puck biscuits. Get me a beer, and a piece of hot bread. I'll make a sandwich," Jack growled, glaring at Nick before crossing the kitchen.

 

It was a tiny space; not enough room to have a proper fight in, Nick figured. If he was going to beat the snot out of the creep, he'd need much more room. The tile counters took up enough space so the two were basically brushing arms when Jack crossed the room. Before he could react, Nick found himself falling, the tight fabric of his collar digigng into his neck.

 

 Jack, dangling the jock by his collar, grit his teeth and clenched his jaw in anger. "You really should watch out for your family, Nicky boy. Your mother is just so fragile, and those bratty siblings sure are a pain in the ass. I'd hate to have to kick one of their asses, too." Spit freckled Nick's face, as Jack pulled him just a bit closer, growling through clenched teeth and slurring through the drunkeness.

 

Nick, lunging even though the older man held him at a distance by his collar, felt his stomach dropping and the urge to kick the living crap out of the guy growing stronger and stronger with every syllable that slipped from Jack Henry's lips. Jack, his mother's common-law husband of almost thirteen years, had never liked the Nick and it was vice versa, from the minute Jack and his tobacco stained teeth set foot in their home, thirteen years ago in Minneapolis.

~~~

 Amy, finishing the corner of her pinkie toe, smiled at the cherry red nail polish that gleamed on her fingers and toes. Nix loved red; it was his favorite color. Grabbing her landline phone, she twirled the cord around her finger and dialed Amanda, frowning when her friend didn't pick up. What would she and Stoner Kingsley be doing that was so important she couldn't answer her best friend's call? Pouting a bit, Amy tried a different number.

 

"'Ello," a rumbly, deep voice said through the phone. Amy smiled, trying to swallow the excitement that had crept into her voice.

 

"Nix, hey," she beamed, tossing her hair over her shoulder despite the fact he couldn't see her. She sat up in her royal purple bed and twirled a strand of red hair around her finger like a love-struck teenager... which she might as well have been.

 

"Oh, Amy, hey," he managed, his voice sounding strained and distracted. She could just picture him, playing video games in that mansion she figured he lived in, on some big plasma screen TV. No one had ever been to Nix's house, not even Amy or Matt.

 

"So, about that date that I mentioned in class," she smiled, scooting over as her white Persian cat Champagne curled up on the end of her bed. Scratching the fluffy cat between the ears, Amy waited for a response. After a few moment of silence, she figured to continue. "Well, Nix, you never gave me a definite answer. And, I'll need to know so we can get you a suit, and a tie to match my dress. It's kind of formal, and my mom's been blathering about how this could be great exposure for Swank, so you'll need the works: the gold cuff links and gelled hair and-"

 

"Look, Ames," Nix sighed, his voice sounding so tired and upset, "can I call you later? I'm kind of busy-"

 

"Oh! Uh," Amy, not prepared for rejection, nodded before realizing he couldn't see her. "Yeah... yeah, call me later. I'll, uh, be waiting!"

 

And with that, Amy hung up the phone. After glancing at Champagne, who looked at her lazily, Amy sighed frustratedly. "I'll be waiting," she mimicked in a bubbly soprano voice, rolling her eyes, "Jesus, I sound like a stalker!"

 

Just then, the knocking at her bedroom door made her sit up, careful of her still-wet toenails. Her mother, smiling fakely, stood in the doorway. Sometimes, Amy figured, it was good to be adopted. At least she didn't have her father's fat genes, or her mother's thin, weak blond hair. Amy was actually grateful of her birth mother, who gave her pretty blue eyes and a great figure. Unlike her adopted mother, who was part robot or something, Amy always thought her birth mother was young and made a simple mistake. Amber Herring, who was still standing in the doorway looking kind of pitiful and stupid, had been declared a perfectionist, cyborg by the time Amy was nine.

 

 "Sweetheart, do you have everything ready for the opening tomorrow? Your father and I simply can't do all these errands for you, when I still have to check in the with caterer and call the band," her mother began, another rant Amy was familiar with.

 

"Yes, mother," she groaned, grabbing a pillow and placing it over her eyes as though to shut out the sound of her mother droning on and on about another party.

 

 Amy just rolled onto her back and toyed with the phone cord, twirling it around her finger and smiling at her newst daydream. In this one, she and Nix would be walking around the gallery when he suddenly spills that incredibly bad-smelling, incredibly expensive white wine on her dress. In a flustered rush, he'd accidentally make the strap of her pretty dark blue gown fall, revealing a pale, smooth shoulder he wouldn't be able to resist, and simply would kiss. Hesitant, Amy would wait the appropriate amount of tentative time before forgetting Matt and enveloping her lips with Nix's...

 

"Amy? Are you even listening," her mother asked, standing in front of her, hands on hips in a motherly fashion. Amy rolled her eyes and nodded.

 

"Of course, Mother. Now really, I have to finish my nails, and I know how the fumes give you migranes," Amy insisted in a fakely sweet voice before shooing her mother out of her room. Only after the door shut behind her and Amy layed back down did she let herself continue daydreaming about Nick Keatings.

The Party

 

 

Amanda finished her round-off with a big 'Go Bulldogs!' and cheesy, cheery smile. Saturday practices were always the worst, she figured, but afterwards she felt motivated to work out even more. Working out was Amanda's way of life, it seemed. Sure, puking your guts up after every meal made her skinny, but she needed to keep her muscle tone if she wanted to keep her position as base.

 

"Go Bulldogs," Kristin and Jessica mimicked, smiling just as cheesily and cheerily. Amanda looked back just in time to see Hannah, their flyer, land a perfect pyramaid top. After a few unneccessary backtucks, the cheerleaders let their perfect stances fall and all tiredly smiled.

 

"Well, I think I'm done for the rest of my life," Erica James dramatically sighed, shaking her hair out of her ponytail and plopping onto a pile on the floor after a long drink of cool water. Everyone laughed, and Coach Donnahue shook her head.

 

"Alright, ladies," she chuckled, before glancing at Mike and Ricky, "and gentlemen, practice is over. I want you guys to work on that dance I taught you last week though."

 

Everyone grumbled and nodded in response before gathering their bags and water bottles. Amy hadn't even come to practice today, Amanda thought annoyedly. She knew this 'date' with Nick was a big deal for her friend,  but so was cheerleading. Coach Donnahue had been pissed when Amy hadn't even bothered to tell her she wasn't coming to practice, and decided Amy would spend an extra fifteen minutes working on her hands and motions next practice before doing a solo jump-line performance.

 

Amanda was just bugged she'd be sittting at home all weeekend. All of her friends were busy: Nix and Amy were going to Amy's mother's gallery opening, Matt was spending his weekend hanging paper lanterns and streamers for his cousin's sweet sixteen. Even her parents had plans! Amanda never seemed to have excitement in her life without some friend nagging her into doing something slightly reckless, like speeding five miles over the limit or agreeing to go on a date with that football player who's been after since the first game of the season.

 

 Slinging her duffle bag over her shoulder, she barely made out Mike and Erica's conversation. "-so be there at ten. The whole team is going to be at this party- there's supposed to be some great shit there."

 

Amanda, halting, looked over at the two. Where was the whole team going, and why hadn't she been informed? Tapping on Mike's shoulder, Amanda out on her best Miss. America contestant smile and asked in a peppy voice that betrayed her annoyed thoughts, "Where is everyone going?"

 

Mike, nervously glancing at Erica, scratched the back of his neck, his green eyes flickering to Amanda's hazel. "Well, uh, we were all going to go to this party in Ridgemont... we just figured you wouldn't want to go because there's supposed to be some drinking and... other stuff."

 

Amanda arched a brow and rolled her eyes. "Mike, I can handle some pot and tablets. Where is this party? I need some excitement in my life, anyways."

 

Erica, smiling, peeped up now, jumping as though she just had the greatest thought ever. "We'll pick you up! At nine-thirty; we don't want to be the first people there," she said airily, smiling at Amanda. Mike nervously looked at Erica, probably wondering if Miss. Perfect would be up for getting wasted at some house party without any parental supervision.

 

"Great," Amanda grinned satisfactorily, glad she had found some excitement without Amy's help, "I'll see you at nine-thirty."

 ~~~

Lucy sat in her room, at her father's house, basically twiddling her thumbs. Her bedroom was actually okay, she had decided after seeing what Liza had done with it. A white wood vanity sat opposite of the giant mural her father had let her paint on the wall. Not to toot her own horn, but it was something she took a lot of pride in, and thought it was probably her best piece of artwork. When her father saw it, he smiled and said, 'I see you and your mother are becoming more and more alike with each year'. It was a rainbow silhouette of the tree at her mother's house, her tree, with a little silhouette bird perched on a branch. It made Lucy feel better just by looking at it.

 

Her bed spread was a teal sillky material, piled high with comfy pillows and fluffy blankets and cuddly stuffed animals that sat int he palm of her hand. The wall behind her white painted desk was full of pictures, ones she had snapped of Kingsley and flowers and butterflies and her mother dancing with Richard in the kitchen, her head falling back with open laughter. Looking at the wall, she noted not one picture was of her.

 

 She was waiting for her father to come in and tell her she was going to have to pack up and head back to her mother's house, but so far there was no avail. She had begun to sketch a pair of familiar brown eyes that looked like melted Rolo's-- not that she was still thinking of Nick or anything, simply because he had pretty eyes, or so she told herself anyways-- when a knock came at her bedroom door, making her jump and shove her sketchbook underneath her pillow hurriedly.

 

"Lucy," a sugary, fake voice cried, making Lucy cringe and paste a smile on her face. Step-Mother Hen stood in the doorway, her wiry frame making Lucy glad to have curves. Liza's beaky nose looked especially beaky today, Lucy decided, since it was paired with bright red lipstick and cat-tail liquid liner. Liza wore a white toga dress, acccented with a gold belt and bangles. Gold bangles looked so much better on Lucy's mom.

 

"Liza," she imitated in the same sickly-sweet, sickly fake tone. She reluctantly climbed from her bed and gave Step-Mother Hen a half-hearted hug. This sucks, she was thinking as she breathed in Liza's suffocating Chanel perfume. Her father didn't have any pets; her father's girlfriend was allergic. Her father didn't have any junk food; Liza was an organic veggie freak who spent her days looking up no-fat vegeterian foods on the Internet that made Lucy wrinkle her nose in protest. Lucy was bored, and craving some greasy potato chips.

 

 "So, your father told me you went on a date," Liza grinned, distastefully looking around the room before grabbing hold of the back of the desk chair and sitting down, finding the unmade bed simply disgusting. Lucy rolled her eyes and plopped down on the floor.

 

"It wasn't a date. He was just a friend from school."

 

"Right," Liza laughed airily, dismissing everything Lucy had just said, "fathers get worried over guys who are 'just friends'. So, who is this 'friend'?"

 

Lucy shrugged, and tugged at the ends of her sweater in hopes of avoiding any conversation with Liza. "Nick. Nick Keatings. He goes-"

 

"Keatings...? He isn't related to Nora Keatings is he," Liza asked, managing her French twist in the vanity across the room. Lucy rolled her eyes.

 

"I don't know. I've never met his mothe-"

 

"You know, if he is, I wouldn't reccommend you getting involved with him. Although he's a cutie-- I've seen some of those pictures Nora has in her office space-- his  family is so dysfunctional. Their dad was killed in some war, and Nora met her boyfriend Jack at some trashy bar. He's a total creep, I think."

 

Liza was a 'newer model houseewife' as Lucy's mother called her. Liza, although perfectly educated, talked like a teenage girl half the time. She was always on her phone, and tanning, and eating healthy because 'your body is your temple, Lucy. In fact, you should eat some more veggies; you're looking a little pudgy'.

 

 Lucy just dismissed what Liza said, even though it left little prickles on her skin. She had seen Jack a couple times at school functions and the occassional awkward run-in at Walmart, and he always put her on edge. Although Nick had never mentioned having any problems, Lucy had a feeling Jack wasn't the kindest to him. The thought made her nervous, although why, she wasn't exactly sure. Trying to forget everything Liza said, Lucy jumped from her bed when she heard the familiar honking of her mother's car.

 

'I will always be grateful for you, Mother," she thought, so happy to be free of Liza, and she gathered her bag and scrambled out of the room without so much as a goodbye to her Step-Mother Hen.

 ~~~

 Kingsley had just finished filling the bowl full of chips when Slater came into the kitchen and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Kingsley, my man, we are going to have yet another great party. Jess's even bringing the brownies."

 

The music pulsed through the house, complete with the strobe lights Slater's brother had stolen from his last dead-end job at a haunted house, and the packed living room was proof of Slater's statement. Laughter and cheers could be heard throughout the whole house, and a new record of red Solo cups-- only twenty so far-- had been spilled.

 

Kingsley chuckled, and thought of his first horrific experience with pot brownies. Not only had he eaten nearly a whole pan, but he almost had to get his stomach pumped. Great times, he thought, shaking his head as Slater popped a pill.

 

Slater was an even bigger junkie than Kingsley, which was saying something. He had the pale skin, and the dark rings under his eyes; the needle marks that were always laced up his arm seemed permanent. He looked kind of sick, with empty dark eyes and an angry twisted smile.

 

"Great," Kingsley sighed, although his heart wasn't so into the party right now. It's because you're tired, he told himself, even though he had been ritualistically sipping coffee for the past twelve hours. After spending four hours with Princess Amanda Friday night, Kinglsey could just feel the fun sapping from his body. Sure, the girl was hot, but she was as boring as watching paint dry. Or, no, she wasn't boring she was... she was virginal, naive.

 

The girl acted like she lived in a Disney movie half the time, humming to herself as she finished stamping the last of the books. Kingsley couldn't help but watch her; he had never seen someone who was so blind to the real world. Even Lucy, who managed to be happy almost twenty-four seven in her own weird way,  had made some bad descisions. But, Amanda... even the mentioning of drugs made her clap her hands over her ears and sing so she wouldn't have to listen.

 

She was freakishly inhuman, and would probably never admit to her faults, even though Kingsley had counted a few when she wasn't watching. She twirled her hair subconciously, and she liked those big psychology books that had to be reshelved, because she had paused and flipped through some of the pages with a keen amount of interest. Those weren't exactly flaws, but it showed she wasn't as shallow as most of the cheerleaders. It showed she had some sense of independence from her pack of gold-skirt wearing wolves.

 

Speaking of the wolves, the doorbell rang. Slater, grinning once more, grabbed the now-full bowl of chips and placed them in the living room before answering the door. Kingsley followed only to be stopped by AJ, who insisted he give her a shot gun. As if to persuade him, she pulled the rolled blunt from her pocket and twirled it around her fingers like a skilled baton twirler.

 

 "It's more fun," she purred, trying her best to look seductive, while pulling him by his collar closer to her, "when there's two. C'mon, Kingsley, I've missed partying with my favorite Hamilton Bulldog."

 

AJ went to Ridgemont, and was possibly the biggest slut he had ever met. Although she was fun to mess around with, Kingsley found his eyes wondering to the doorway. Where those gold-skirted wolves stood. Where Amanda Nichols stood.

 

Kingsley had to blink, and brought his hands up to remove AJ's fingers from his collar, to test if what he was seeing really was what he was seeing, or if it was some drug-induced hallucination. Nope, he realized, a smug smile tugging at his lips, this was Amanda Too-Perfect-For-Anyone Nichols standing in his friend's living room, looking as out of place as a penguin in the tiger pen.

 

Despite AJ's protests, Kingsley stumbled out of her grip and towards the door, where Amanda was looking hopeless and very uncomfortable. Grabbing a random cup filled with soda from the stairs and taking a whiff to smell vodka, Kingsley made his way over, putting on his best lazy smile.

 

"Manda Panda, crazy shit seeing you here," he cried, wrapping an arm around  her shoulder and holding out the cup. Amanda, diffidence surfacing on her pretty little features, looked at the cup.

 

"It's virgin," Kingsley insisted, although wondering if she'd even notice the difference of a little alcohol. Amanda, sighing, took the cup from his hand and smiled weakly.

 

"You know," she said, her chest shaking as she exhaled loudly, "I'm actually kind of relieved your here. I'm not used to the party scene."

 

"Amanda," Kinglsey chuckled, amused by her innocence and slight stupidity, "I am the party scene. A few more cups of this, and you'll be good as golden at parties."

 

Amanda smiled, taking another nervous sip of the funny tasting soda, and pulled his arm from her shoulder. The nervousness that had been stewing in her stomach was bubbling and boiling now, it seemed. She wore her favorite A-line Betsey Johnson Airbrush with Fate dress, and yet she still felt so... out of place. Okay, so the dress looked like something from Leave It to Beaver, with light blue polka dots, and she didn't really know anyone here, but she still felt like a fox in the henhouse. If Kingsley hadn't been holding onto her arm, she probably would have ran out the door, too afraid of the label on her forehead that screamed she just didn't belong.

 

 Kingsley, sensing her discomfort, genuinely smiled at her, putting on his nice guy act in spite of the party that was exploding before him. "It'll be fun. C'mon, we can dance together," he offered nicely, taking her hand and smiling at her. If it weren't for his bloodshot eyes and the smell of pot that wafted off his jacket, Amanda might have actually called him handsome.

 

"I'm not much of a dancer," Amanda insisted, only to be tugged onto the dance floor. Kingsley smiled, as a slower song poured from the speakers, and pulled her closer.

 

"Looks like you're going to have to learn, Panda."

 

They danced slowly at first, Kingsley leading with a surprising amount of grace. Amanda cracked a smile, as he charmingly swayed her on the dance floor, his hands clasping hers. The lights were dim, and although the kids around them grinded and booed and drunkenly cried out, Amanda was genuinely having fun by the time he had slipped his hand onto her waist. His hand was warm through the cotton of her dress, and he glanced up into her hazel eyes and cracked a smile. A golden strand of hair hung in her eyes, as she hopelessly moved her feet in some attempt to mirror him. 

 

"Just slow down. Follow my lead," he insisted, making her nod. In her defense, she had warned him of her horrendous dance skills. 

 

They settled into the same tempo, Kingsley leading, his right hand clasping her left and his other hand on her hip. He told himself it was because of the dancing, not because his hand seemed to almost fit there. 

 

"Mind if I cut in," a loud, obnoxious voice asked. Kingsley arched a brow and turned to see Eric Sanders. A smile bloomed on his face, before he could stop it, and he dropped Amanda's hand. 

 

"Eric, you showed! Now, you know, if I beat the living shit out of you here, there's no running to tell the teacher," Kingsley snapped, rolling his eyes. Eric shrugged him off and smiled at Amanda. 

 

"Mind if I cut in," he asked again.

 

Amanda shook her head. "Uh... sure."

 

Eric smiled the smile that made teachers love him and parents fawn over him and girls go over the moon for him, and took Amanda's hand. 

 

"Good."

 

Kingsley didn't seem to mind, at first, Amanda thinking he was simply annoyed because Eric had showed up at the party in the first place. She watched, from over Eric's shoulder when he spun her, as Kingsley shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the dance floor, looking suddenly out-of-place at his own party. She immediatly felt pitying, and opened her mouth to say something when a busty blond, in a tank top that reveal the purple cups of her bra and a pair of short jean shorts, grabbed hold of Kingsley hands. Craning her neck, Amanda watched as Kingsley smiled at the other blond. They exchanged words, before she grabbed hold of hand and pulled something out of her pocket. 

 

Amanda kept dancing with Eric, although everything felt off. His hand held her hip too tightly; he spun her so many times she had begun to get dizzy. She watched Kingsley walk off with the other blond, a joint in her hand, and remembered why she never went to these parties, why she never hung out with people unlike her. 

 

She and Eric danced, and after a while they had even found a corner in the room and began talking like old buddies. He grabbed her a beer, she specified this, and they clinked plastic, red Solo cups. To our kind sticking together, Amanda toasted silently as she sipped the amber liquid, even though it tasted like dirty foot water.  

The Gallery

 

 

 Nix looked around the white-walled, Plexi-glass lined gallery in utter fascination. Sparkling, modern chandeliers hung from the ceilings, casting a bright glow on the walls and paintings. Men in berets and and tuxes and turtlenecks and women in dotted dresses and bright lipstick and sparkly expensive jewelry mingled, which was an odd sight. Some of the men, probably other artists, looked as though they hadn't bathed in weeks, yet they chatted away with Victoria's Secret model-look-a-likes.

 

 The world of art, and the artists themselves, were so new and foreign to him. Just then, as Nix was people-watching and searching the seas of unfamiliar faces, he felt a tug on the arm of his rented tux. Amy, her hair up in a knot, her dress a royal blue that caught and shimmered in the light, hung from his arm like a wet towel.

 

Nix knew he had agreed to take Amy to the gallery, but so far all she had done was complain. She complained about her dress-- it was 'an ugly monstrosity my mother picked out so I won't upstage her'-- and the artists and her 'headache'. Nix thought it was just an excuse so she could lay her head on his shoulder during the ride to the gallery.

 

"Nix," she asked, her voice laced with a dramatized pain, "can you get me a glass of champagne? I have a headache, and I'm desperately in need of something to give me a buzz."

 

Now, standing in the gallery, he was wondering if he had made the right descision. Sure, Amy was his friend, but he hadn't rented a tux so she could complain about being rich and pretty. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed her a glass of champagne like some lap dog in a monkey suit.

 

Amy took it greedily, and looked around the gallery in curiousity. Just as the lip of the flute touched her red painted lips, Amy froze. No. This had to be some nightmare. Glancing at Nix, she was glad to see he hadn't noticed the dark, curly haired beauty that was surrounded by a swarm of artists and critics. Fuck.

 

Amy stared at Lucy Edwards in absolute horror... and slight shock. She wore a tight, long-sleeved, blue sequin peplum dress that Amy would have picked out herself. In fact, it was almost the same shade of blue as Amy's dress. Her dark curly was up in a messy side-knot, with tendrils framing her face, and her eyes were rimmed with black kohl, something she almost never wore. Amy had to double take.

 

Who knew, underneath all those baggy sweaters and bangs, Lucy Edwards had a banging little body? The dress she wore, which only reached her knees, hugged her hips. If she weren't such a freak, Amy might have even asked her to try out for the cheerleading squad.

 

"Nix, let's go-," Amy began, only to let her voice fade when Nix looked up. His eyes met Lucy's, and Amy swore she saw Nix's face light up, and Lucy Edwards smile widely.

 

"Is that Lucy," Nix asked absently, not even looking at Amy as he walked towards the beautiful girl, Amy still clinging to his arm. She felt as though she were a dog on a leash, a helpless bystander as her brilliant plan crumbled before her eyes.

 

"Lucy," Nick grinned, his eyes so bright and his smile so wide. Amy had never seen him this way.

 

Lucy smiled, and wrapped her tiny arms around his middle, despite Amy's hand still clinging to Nix's arm. Only after she pulled away from their embrace did she look up into those Rolo eyes. "Nick, hey! What are you doing here?!"

 

"Um," Nix trailed off, his eyes lingering on her tiny perfect hand, which rested on his free arm, "Amy's mom... Amy's mom own the gallery."

 

Somehow managing a sentence, Nick grinned dopily. Lucy hadn't even looked at Amy, who's face was about as red as her hair. Amy couldn't believe this! She was becoming the third wheel! She watched, in silent horror, as her prey transformed into a beautiful butterfly, capturing Nick's attention only by batting her lashes and touching his arm.

 

"Wh-What are you doing here," Nick asked, not even batting an eyelash at Amy as she let go of his arm and raised a brow in Lucy's direction.

 

Lucy laughed and jabbed her thumb in the direction of a painting that hung behind her. "My mom. She's an artist, and appearantly I'm her muse. Although, I'm not really complaining because it got me out of a weekend at my dad's."

 

Nick laughed, and found himself wandering just a bit closer to her, breathing in the perfume she wore. She always smelled good, but whatever she wore today was kind of breath taking. He felt himself freeze when she grabbed hold of his hand, his heart beginning to beat wildly, and lead him away from the crowd, closer to her mother's painting. Amy just stood there, confused and annoyed as hipsters and artists and old women swarmed her like a wave, keeping her from clinging onto Nix.

 

"You know," Lucy said lowly, careful not to let any one else hear when they were finally alone, "I hate these things. A lot."

 

"Really," Nick asked, surprised, his fingers still laced with hers. He looked around the bright gallery and thought of how much he could see her hanging out here. Lucy looked like she belonged here, with her wild hair and bright smile and quirky jokes. The people here seemed to love Lucy-- she was the Amy Herring of the art world, the beautiful cheerleader of scultpers and painters.

 

A fake smile pasted on her lips, Lucy nodded. Her lips pulled tight against her teeth, she said, "Yeah. I mean, they're better than spending two days locked in my dad's apartment with his lame girlfriend, but... I hate them. With a passion."

 

Nick chuckled, despite his best interest to be concerned, and Lucy gave him a playful glare.

 

"Almost as much as you hate brutish football players," he teased, trying his hardest not to let the disappointment show on his face as she dropped his hand. Lucy laughed, and brought her hands to her wrist. Written there, he could see small black words like usual. Knowing he was probably crossing some lines yet curiosity getting the best of him, he grabbed hold of her wrist, brushing her fingers away so he could see what was written.

 

Bitch. Freak. Loser. Go die.

 

Big bold letters, spelling out things that weren't true, were trailing up and down her arms, artfully covered by the glittering sleeves of her dress. Concern written on his face, he searched her unwilling face for some sort of clue as to what it was. Lucy just pulled her hand away, careful not to look him in the eye.

 

"Lucy, what-"

 

"Do you like the picture," she asked, hurriedly changing the subject and pointing to the painting that hung from the wall. Nick, reluctantly compliant, turned towards the painting, although he wached her out of the corner of his eye. His eyes barely focused on the big black stains that blotted the canvas when Lucy waas standing there, pretending as though something wasn't very wrong.

 

"Y-Yeah, I guess," he managed, although not even glancing at the painting.

 

"Nick," she asked again, her voice just a bit quieter, "do you want to get out of here?"

 

Nick, looking over at Amy, felt that excitement in his stomach diminsh. He couldn't just leave her; she had personally asked him to come with her. Being there for your friend was much more important than the girl you've liked since eighth grade asking you to leave with her, he told himself.

 

"I-I can't. Amy's here and-"

 

"Please," she asked again, batting her lashes and letting her bottom lip jut out just a bit, "I need a ride to a party, and I figured we could hang out together. I mean, I don't want to go by myself, and...-"

 

Sighing, Nick ran his fingers through his hair and gave his friend another backwards glance. "Is there a back door here?"

 

Lucy grinned, taking his hand, and squeezed. "Of course. C'mon, let's get out of here, Nick Keating."

~~~

Amy exhaled loudly and glared at the giant surrealistic portrait of Lucy Edwards in utter hatred. Swirling her glass of champagne around before taking a big gulp of the sickly sweet, bubbly liquid, Amy grimaced. Lucy Edwards had stolen her date; Lucy Edwards had stolen her gallery opening; next, Lucy Edwards was going to steal her spot on the cheerleading team, or her date to homecoming. 

 

 Just the thought of it made Amy wretch. Whatever she had felt for Lucy-- whatever toleration she had granted Lucy-- was ripped away in the matter of seconds it took for her and Nix to leave the gallery. 

 

To deal with the thought, Amy grabbed another flute of champagne from an unsuspecting waiter, before double-taking and grabbing two more flutes, to nurse the pain of loneliness.  Amy snorted- she was the one supposed to be inflicting pain, not Lucy fucking Edwards. 

 

 The picture before her made her stomach twist a thousand and one ways, each more painful than the next. Lucy was pretty, undeniably so, with her stupid, secretive, mystery-girl bangs and those creepy words on her arms written in Sharpie. They were probably things written to keep her from cutting. 

 

 Anyways, the picture was surreal, in a scary, vulnerably creepy kind of way. The background was that chilling shade you see in horror movies that no one really appreciated, somewhere along the lines of charcoal and heather grey.  A tall tree, bare of leaves and plentiful of sharp, curling branches, sat right in the midst of the canvas, a silhouette in the sea of greys. Hanging from the tree, dark wild curly hair fanning her pretty face, was a painted Lucy Edwards. Her cheeks were little rose buds; her body was one of a bird; her lips were streaks of crimson blood on porcelain skin. 

 

 Amy brooded over the picture, trying to decide if it was sheer brilliance or stupid garbage when the sudden feeling of loneliness diminished from the air. She looked to left to see a man, a suit hugging his built body. His skin was golden. His hair, dark as ebony, was gelled into some style she couldn’t explain. His brown eyes kind of looked like Nix’s Rolo eyes. Suddenly ravenous for chocolate, Amy turned. The man had white teeth, she knew, because he was smiling at her, exposing those white teeth as though he had just won an award. 

 

 Amy, glancing at the three flutes of champagne in hand, smiled half-heartedly. “They’re not mine,” Amy lied, looking at the man to see him smiling. 

 

 “Really,” he asked with a raised brow, taking one from her hand gently and placing the other on the floor, and giving her his free hand, “I’m Darin. Darin Brighton. Mind if I drink this then?” He raised the glass, and Amy waved it off dismissively. 

 

 “Knock yourself out. I have much better company now than half a bottle of Krug Brut Vintage 1988,” Amy smiled, and glanced down at her dress. Yes, she was still wearing her ugly satin, royal blue dress. Yes, her hair was still a fiery orange, and her shoulders were still speckled and freckled. Yes, this Brody Jenner look-a-like was smiling at her, and giving her his hand, and drinking her champagne. 

 

 “Wow,” Darin grinned, showing off those white teeth again and coming just a bit closer so Amy could breathe in that spicy scent of, what could only be, his very expensive cologne, “you know your champagne; I’m impressed. So, beautiful Krug Brut Vintage 1988 Girl, can I get a name? I simply can’t keep calling you that mouthful all night.”

 

Thinking of her favorite movie starlette, Amy grinned, her white teeth shining brightly against her dark red lipstick. “Scarlette. I’d give you my last name,” she smiled flirtatiously, throwing every thought of Matt out of her mind as she took Darin’s hand, “but I’d like there to be some mystery.”

 

 Darin laughed, a light one that made her feel effortlessly sexy, and stepped a little closer. “Ah, mystery is another name for our ignorance; if we were omniscient, all would be perfectly plain-- Tyron Edwards.”

 

 “Is that how you pick up all the girls,” Amy teased, carelessly letting her fingers trail to the collar of his jacket, her blue eyes meeting his brown, “ with famous theologian quotes? I’m impressed, Darin Brighton.”

 

 He chuckled, and glanced at the piece of art before them. He asked the question Amy had been bitterly harboring all night: What do you think of it?

 

 Amy, pretending to stew the thought over, stared at the picture once again. She prayed this sexy Darin didn’t see her features darkening, or her brows furrowing in anger. “You know,” she said, trying her best to sound matter-of-fact, “I think it’s a little overrated. I mean, it’s so... melodramatic, you know? The girl looks like something out of a Twilight movie.”

 

 Darin, nodding up until that point, snorted when he heard her Twilight reference. “The vampire movie? You think?”

 

 “Yeah,” Amy nodded, twirling a tendril of red hair around her finger, “I mean, she just needs a hoodie and a headband and she’s basically Bella. And the dark hair, dark scenery, dark silhouette thing is totally overrated.”

 

 “I agree,” Darin nodded, his arm brushing against her shoulder, “I think redheads are much sexier.”

 Just that little touch had Amy’s body buzzing. She looked up at him from beneath lashes, and grinned. “Hey, Darin Brighton,” she said softly, her fingers still fiddling with the collar of his jacket, “do you want to get out of here?”

~~~

AJ exposed the little pouch, barely enough to fill the red, yellow and green pipe Kingsley held in his hands.

 

After Asswipe Eric stole his dance partner, Kingsley needed to take a little smoke break to keep from smashing the guy's face into the polished wooden floors. He had a lot of nerve showing up at Kingsley's party, of all the fucking places in the world. Just the thought made Kingsley piss-fire mad.

 

 Blond AJ gave him a sly smile, and grabbed the grinder from her bag, placing a few pieces of pot in between the plastic teeth. The room began to smell of weed, of burnt hair and skunk, of a bit of relaxation.

 

"So," she asked, her hands working the two pieces of plastic, "who was the girl?"

 

Kingsley didn't even blink, and grabbed the grinder from her hands, pouring the contents into the pipe. His nimble fingers dug through his jeans until they wrapped around the lighter he always kept handy. It wasn't until he took a hit-- the lighter clog getting hot underneath his fingers and smoke invading his lungs with a big inhale, and blew the smoke in rings out of his mouth-- did he answer. "Who?"

 

AJ gave him a look, 'that' look, and rolled her eyes before taking a hit herself. "The little blondie from I Dream Of Jeanie."

 

"Just a friend." Kingsley shook his head, and took the pipe from her hands. The smoke tasted like burnt coffee, hurt his throat as he sputtered into his hand. It was official; he couldn't even get high anymore without screwing up. 

 

"Right," AJ grinned, "a friend you just so happen to crotch grab while on the dance floor."

 

He rolled his eyes and shrugged her off, remembering the look on Amanda's face when he first bailed on AJ. He had followed her into the back room. He had gotten out the pot; he had found his lighter in the jumbled mess of his pocket; he had held the pipe to his lips, before he dropped it and excused himself. He had figured, by then, Amanda would be done dancing with Asswipe and they could go back to partying.

 

What he hadn't figured was she and Asswipe would be cuddling in a corner, giggling like school girls. He steeled himself on that one, snorting at the sight of homecoming king and queen curled up. It wasn't like he had expected Amanda to hang onto his every whim... he just handn't expected her to follow Eric Asswipe of all people. That's when he walked back into the back bedroom, pretending not to be annoyed with the thought of Amanda making googly eyes at the meathead, and plopped down on the bed. AJ looked at him, a smile playing on her lips. 

 

Finally, he sighed. "Well, are we going to get high or what?"

The Dream

 

 

The sounds and sights of the party were what made Lucy slightly more wild than usual. As Nix's car pulled up to the front lawn, the obnoxious music that poured from the unfamilar house was way too loud and cut through the silence in the car. Lucy's blue dress glittered in the light that seeped through the curtains in the windows, and an excited blush spread through her.

 

Turning to Nick and his tux, she frowned. "You're a little dressed up for one of Kingsley's parties..."

 

With that, she began to unbutton his jacket. Her nimble small fingers tugged at the jacket, making Nick stiffen with the slight certainty this was some dream. He felt shivers crawl up his spine when she brought her fingers to his tie and slowly loosened it, never breaking his eye contact. When her fingers combed through his hair, fixing the slicked back hair he had spent fifteen minutes trying to perfect, he didn't even mind. Smiling at her handiwork, Lucy let her fingers run through his hair unneccessarily, just because she could. She kind of liked it.

 

"Slater and I are cool, and I'm sure if I do enough begging, he'll let you in," she teased Nick, smiling to herself when he cut the engine and climbed out of the car to open her door. Chivalry isn't all that dead, she happily thought as she took his hand and stepped out of the car and into the moonlight.

 

 The moonlight glittered on her dress, made her hair shine. Nix felt his fingers fumbling with the lock button on his keys when he looked up at her, dry mouthed and in awe. Her dark eyes were so bright with happiness, he never would have believed the things she had written on her arm if he hadn't seen them himself.

 

 "So he won't kick me out for wearing some monkey suit," Nix laughed, walking with her up to the drive. She strut, like she belonged to the party, like she was the party. Lucy laughed and took his hand, commanding his mind once against just with that little touch.

 

"No, I'll get you in. Don't doubt me," she insisted, nudging him and letting herself lean into his chest slightly. She kinda fit, she figured, tucked under his arm. Stopping slightly, she felt his broad chest bump into her. Her back still facing him, she swallowed some autumn New Hampshire air and asked the one question that had been tickling her skin all night. "Nick... why'd you come with me, instead of staying with Amy?"

 

Nick didn't even have to think. "Because we're friends," he shrugged, as though the answer was obvious.

 

"Right. For this weekend. At school on Monday, we'll go back to being... normal, right," she asked, steeling herself for that agreeable 'yeah'. Of course they would; she was setting herself up for hurt by asking this question. Nick snorted, and grabbed hold of her arm lightly. She turned, facing him and his copper-blond hair and Rolo eyes and strong jawline, and felt as though someone had punched her in the gut. Here it was, the inevitable 'We shouldn't really talking in public.'

 

"What? Lucy-"

 

"You don't have to be nice to me anymore, you know. I've forgiven you, for the whole journal thing... and you don't have to say we're friends."

 

"We are, though," he insisted, bewildered by how much she was denying this.

 

"But we're not... we're not exactly a good match. People will talk and... they'll look at us weird in public."

 

Nick snorted and looked at her as though she was crazy. "Lucy, I don't care what other people think. In fact... in fact, you should eat with me at lunch, in the Quad on Monday. It'll be fun. I mean, Matt is a 'go-with-the-flow' kinda guy, and Amy and Amanda... Well, Amanda's really nice," Nix smiled, punching her shoulder playfully, even though the action was hollow and weak. They both knew this was not good idea. They both knew it was a terrible idea, and yet, Nick didn't mind as much as he thought he would.

 

"Are you sure? I mean, won't it be a little... weird?"

 

"No. Look, if you want, you can even drag Kingsley with," Nick laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets and quirking an eye brow at her. "What do you think will happen? We have nothing to talk about? I mean, we're all going to be at the party tonight."

 

"Except Amy," Lucy reminded him, trying her best not to sound awkward. Nick almost winced at that note. The reminder was a rough, swift kick in the gut. He was already feeling worse than horrible for ditching his friend, despite how much she had complained. He could only hope she was having fun. Appearantly, he had no idea about the Brody Jenner look-a-like who was happily, and drunkenly, keeping that friend company.

 

 "Right...," Nick drawled, guilt wrenching him in the gut. It was a sour feeling, on his tongue, the taste of betrayal. He was a bad friend; a horrible friend. Amy had been there when, in tenth grade, he broke up with Miranda Hale, who he had dated for almost a year. Amy had been there when, in ninth grade, he had twisted his ankle during a football game. Amy had been there when, in eighth grade, he confessed he thought the new girl, Lucy, was really pretty. And now when-

 

The feeling of Lucy's breath on his neck stopped him cold, despite the wrongness of it all. She was suddenly so close, he could kiss her if he wanted. Which, he really wanted... Realizing she was on her tip toes, he smiled.  

 

"Nick," she insisted, hugging him, her head resting on her shoulder, "thank you. I... I really need this."

 

'I know,' he wanted to say. 'I don't know why you write those things on your arm, or why you act so happy to see me one moment, and then put up a barrier between us, but I know.'

 

Instead, he simply smiled and hugged her back, loving the feeling of her body pressed against his. He wasn't gong to ruin this by saying something stupid, he decided, and simply took her hand and let her lead him to the front door.

~~~

 

 The party was destitute when Kingsley finally caught up with Lucy. She had shown up sometime after eleven, with Nick Keating in tow, like he was a fucking puppy dog. The thought made the drunken Kingsley sick. Amanda-- so drunk she was stumbling into him and hanging off him and taking cups from random strangers only to have Kingsley rip them from her hand, insisting they could be drugged or something-- thought 'Nix and Lucy were like fucking God and M&Ms!', before passing out on the couch.

 

Only after everyone left did Kingsley actually manage to sit down and talk with his sister amongst the mess of empty cups and condom wrappers and vomit and many other disgusting things that littered the living room. Despite Slater's insistance that it was no big deal, and he and his brother could have it cleaned up by the morning, everyone besides Amanda, who could hardly sit up, began cleaning up.

 

Green Day lulled from the speakers, quiet so no one gained a roaring headache in the process of wiping up vomit, and everyone was silently picking up stuff in disgust, with the occassional joke and giggle from Amanda. The halls and bedrooms and living room were finally empty, and everyone had decided to just crash in the living room until the morning, knowing Amanda's mother would kill her ten times over if she so much as caught a whiff of alcohol on her daughter.

 

"So," Kingsley drawled, as they scrubbed an odd stain from the carpet, glancing at Lucy as she gathered up the last of the empty cups, "what's Keating doing?"

 

Lucy, looking over her shoulder to see him holding Amanda's hair back as she violently vomitted into the garabage can Slater had left out of common courtesy, smiled. "He's helping your girlfriend while she pukes her brains out. What did you let her drink, anyways?"

 

 Kingsley rolled his eyes and glared at her. "First of all, she's not my girlfriend. She tagged here with the rest of the Bulldrag squad. Second, she drank anything from Schanpps and Jack Daniels to the crappy flat beer Slater's brother had snagged us. For a lightweight," he said thoughtfully, almost as though he admired her for the fact, "she held a lot of her liqour. And thirdly, I meant what is he doing here?" 

 

 "Nick," Amanda hissed, her words slurring as she reached blindly for his face, making everyone look over at her, "Amy wants to suck your dick. Like, crazy hard. She told me not to tell you...-" Cutting off from an attack of giggles and hiccups, she fell into a heap on the couch.

 

"What," Nick chuckled, looking amused and confused, not quite believing the drunken bulimic. He looked around the living room, as if Kingsley, Slater, and Lucy could confirm the fact.

 

"Yeah. She, like, loves you," Amanda continued, an awkward, pregnant silence blooming in the air. Kingsley grinned despite himself, finding it all annoyingly amusing. Lucy felt her face flush, when Nick glanced over at her, and Slater just cheered.

 

"Blowjobs are like Christmas," he laughed, higher than any astornaut dared to travel. He and Amanda looked at each other, before erupting in laughter.

 

"Amy... Amy likes me," Nick asked, as though the piece of old news wasn't registering. Amanda nodded and twirled her hair absently.

 

"Since, like, forever. She had this plan to get you to go to the boardwalk with her, to like hook up. But you left her for Lucy, which was so dickish... Is anyone else really thirsty? Kingsley! Kinglsey," she cried, her eye growing round as she crawled off the couch and tumbled towards him, "will you please get me something to drink? I'm really thirsty."

 

Nick looked lost; very, deeply hurt. Lucy, standing and brushing off her knees, walked over to him. Crouching down to his level, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Nick?"

 

"Jesus... that bitch! Matt's... Matt's my best friend," he cried, angrily snapping at Lucy and making her flinch. He stood, brushing off his hands, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Why would she do that to Matt?!"

 

"'Cause she's a bitch," Kingsley offered, only to recieve a warning glare from Lucy.

 

 "Kingsley, that's rude, Amy is Nix's friend-"

 

"No, he's right," Nix agreed, angrily chewing his lip. What, in God's name, made Amy think Nick would ever like her? Sure, he loved her, like a sister, but he would never be in love with her. Just the thought made him feel sick.

 

"So...," Amanda drawled, looking around the room, "no one's going to get my water?"

~~~

 

 

 He was five again. He wore his favorite duck-print pajamas, with the little feet at the bottom. He remembered crying about something, although every dream was different. Sometimes, he was crying because of the sprinkles on the floor; sometimes it was because it was too early for her naptime.

 

He waddled through the halls of his house, everything so tall and big compared to his little hands and feet. The bottoms of his feetie pajamas clicked against the shiny dark wood floors, all the way to the bathroom.

 

He couldn't-- wouldn't-- forget what he saw. Memories of baths and bubbles and squeaky rubber ducks quickly went down the drain. She lay on the floor, looking so peaceful, the smell of blood lingering in the air. Her head was bleeding. It pooled around her dark curls, matting her hair against the back of her head.

 

"Mom," he'd whisper. He couldn't see her face; it was covered by her hair. He remembered her face well enough: dry, cracked lips, bloody hair, eyes so lifeless and grey. Her skin was grey, not the Snow White blush he was used to. She used to have blue eyes; black hair. Pushing the locks behind her ear, he realized he wasn't looking at his mother.

 

"Lucy," he whispered, the horror registering on his face, his voice cracking. Suddenly, he was seventeen, not five. He still wore the feetie pajamas, which fit his body. Looking down at the pooling blood and dark hair again, he blinked. No, the woman on the floor had brown eyes, not blue. Her skin was golden, but still freezing. It wasn't his mother-- it was Lucy.

 

Kingsley shot up from the couch, feeling the limp, heavy weight of Amanda's head on his chest, his heart beating so fast and his face sweating. His stomach was twisting around inside of him, like he needed to vomit. He wanted to vomit.

 

It had been a dream. He had been dreaming.

 

Looking around, he realized everyone else was asleep, curled up close to each other on the floor. Lucy's faint snore made his heart return to beating, relief flooding through him. He glanced down at his clothes, thinking of the duck pajamas, thinking of the blood on the floor.

 

He hadn't had that dream in years; almost ten years since the last.

 

Her name was Anna, his mother. She had black hair, ebony and glossy, and eyes like electricity. Anna Banana, her husband called her, laughing and kissing her neck while she danced and swayed with him in the dim light of the dining room. Anna you bitch, her husband called her, anger and horror and fright seething off him and holding their son tight to his chest while she threatened to 'do it! I'll pull the damn trigger one day, you wait!' in the bright lights of the boy's bedroom.

 

Her husband was a handsome, successful man. The ebony-haired beauty didn't fit into his world. She was a mess, a beautiful, crazy, sad mess; he was the box in which most people tried to think out of.

 

Her eyes would go glassy, and she would be happy. A sip of something that tasted like rubbing alcohol and she was the belle of the ball, despite how she tipped and tripped and tipsied her way around the dance floors and parties and family gatherings. Anna was dark. Darker than night when she drank, brighter than the stars when she smoked those funny smelling cigarettes and took her happy pills. She had tried to explain it to her son, but he would ask why she needed pills to make her happy. She told him she was trapped, like those mice in the mouse-traps in the basement.

 

And then, one day, she wasn't trapped anymore. Her eyes were gone, no more ice-blue sparkle, and her skin was chilling against the tile floor of the bathroom. The little white and yellow and blue pills around her looked like the sprinkles on a cupcake. Her son had found her; he had been five. It was the reason why Kingsley, at seventeen, still hated cupcakes.

The One Night Stand

 

 

Amy woke up the next morning in an unfamiliar t-shirt, in an unfamiliar bed, with an unfamiliar body pressed against hers. Moles dotted his back, like little stars and constellations, and his-- whoever he was-- breathing was even and slow. Awkwardly sitting up and peeking over the unfamiliar shoulder, she found herself looking at Darin.

 

Darin Brighton, the guy from the gallery. Naked. Lying in bed next to her. Amy blinked, trying to process what exactly happened the night before.

 

She barely remembered hailing a cab for her and Darin, and going to some hole-in-the-wall pub. She faintly remembered him buying her beer, which she guzzled like a truck driver, and her hair falling out of its twist into fiery strands. She sort of remembered the Irish band playing in the background, and dancing barefoot throughout the club, people cheering and laughing and joining in. She definitely remembered when Darin took her hand and danced her around the bar like some drunken princess, asking if she wanted to go back to his place.

 

The rest of the night brought the dull thudding of a headache with it, although Amy could put two and two together. She slept with a random guy- she had had her first one-night stand. New to the walk of shame, Amy slipped out of the bed, despite the warmth it offered.

 

 Gathering her ugly dress in one hand and her heels in the other, she turned just in time to see Darin sitting up in bed, his muscular arms stretching across the headboard. His muscles were enough to make her climb back into that bed.

 

"Morning," he murmured, a sleepy smile tugging at his features, his voice gruff and sexy with drowsiness. Amy, almost dropping her things at the sight of his toned, tan stomach muscles and large biceps, stood like a deer in the headlights.

 

"M-Morning," she managed, only then realizing she was still standing in her underwear, and used the skirt of her dress to cover her body. She felt a flush of emmbarrassment flood her body, and she meekly met his gaze.

 

 "Champagne and I aren't the best of friends," Darin groggily mumbled, rubbing his eyes and placing his feet on the floor. Amy offered him a weak smile and stood a little straighter when he climbed from the bed and crossed the bedroom. Three paces, and he would be standing in front of her. Two paces, and she would be able to feel his body heat. One pace, and they would be standing face to face.

 

"So, Scarlette, there's a bathroom through there, and-," he began, pointing to a tiny, closet sized room off to the corner of his bedroom.

 

Amy froze at the name she had given him, almost forgetting her lie. She was Scarlette Nichols, a college student visiting home while on some university holiday. She was twenty-something; she had an ugly, mangled shelter dog that no one else had wanted named Lucy, that lie brought her just the slightest bit of pleasure imagining the bitch in a muzzle; her favorite band was, oh-so-coincidentally, Dirty Green Vinyl too, which was so totally crazy and unexpected.

 

"Actually, I have to meet some family... for holiday gift exchanges," Amy lied lamely, tensing as his hand rested on her wrist. Jesus, his touch...! It made the hairs on her arm stand up in excitement.

 

"Right. What holiday are you celebrating again," he asked, the slightest tone of a chuckle in his voice.

 

"Uh... um... Christmas," she smiled, shrugging her shoulders and slipping on her dress. Darin chuckled, and looked at her strangley once her head had found its way through the hole.

 

"In Novemeber," he asked teasingly.

 

Amy just shrugged and gave him a smile. "College stuff is going to get in the way... So, I'm just-"

 

"Oh yeah," he laughed, grabbing a pair of pants that had been lying on the floor and slipping them on quickly. His room was lined with bookshelves, full of Shakespeare and Charles Dickens; he was a newly graduated drama teacher. The place was a cool, renovated loft, full of bookshelves and quirky things like a Shakespeare bobble heads and street signs tacked to the walls.

 

His bedroom made Amy remember Darin Brighton was like any other guy, littered with books and clothes. She could navigate her way through the room thankfully, and it wasn't so messy it was huge turn-off, obviously. The walls were a deep, thought-provoking shade of maroon, the beige shade drawn against the early morning sunshine, and the dark wooded furniture went perfectly with it.

 

"Before I forget," he jumped, grabbing a pen and a scrap of paper from the cluttered oak desk that sat against the farthest wall from his bed, and scribbled a number on the piece of paper before handing it to Amy. "In case you're ever in town again."

 

Amy smiled, and took the paper, despite everything that told her this would only lead to a lonely, drunken call at three in the morning on her part.

 

"Thanks," she smiled, before wondering if she should kiss his cheek or shake his hand, then settling on walking straight out the door with as much dignity as most one-night-stand manage.

 ~~~

 

 Amanda woke up on the couch of an unfamiliar home, her head resting on someone's chest. No, not someone, Kingsley Abraham's. Her eye widening in initial shock, she managed to scrambled from her spot, only to recieve a whamming headache when she sat up.

 

"Ugh," she moaned, looking around the living room to see everyone else had left their make-shift beds and helped finish cleaning, and grasped her temples.

 

"Rough night," that raspy, thick voice said from underneath her, peeking open one brilliant blue eye, a smile creeping up on his features. Amanda nodded, and lay back down on his chest in hope to let the swelling in her brain calm. She didn't even care she was lying on Kingsley; if she hadn't, her head would probably have exploded.

 

"Very. Remind me to never take a virgin drink from you again."

 

The beating of his heart was slow and paced, nothing like the night before when she had woken up to his screams. He had been screaming; she remembered that much in her groggy, hung-over phase. His heart had been pounding so quickly, she wondered if he was part rabbit. He had been sweating, and when she looked up at him from beneath her lashes, she saw he was pale.

 

Pity lacing her thoughts, she found herself snuggling into him, despite the strange look he gave her.

 

"Panda, for a lightweight," he said, his voice rumbling in her ear, "I was very impressed with you. I mean, you've been spewing straight liqour for the past twelve hours, but I'm still prety impressed. Lucy's first time resulted in her mom catching us trying to sneak her through the window. We were both grounded for a month."

 

Thinking of home, Amanda cringed. "Shit," she sighed, raking her fingers through her hair and sitting up so her palms were pressed flat against his chest, "my mom is going to kill me. She thinks I went home with Erica... and Erica left. How am I going to get home?!"

 

Kingsley sighed and looked her in the eyes, a smile quirking on his lips. "I'll give you a ride. I'm the one who adultered you, I'm the one who'll help you lie to your mother."

 

"Lie... to my mother," she repeated, as though the thought was so foreign and new to her. Shaking her head, she sat up. "No, Kingsley, I can't lie to my mom. We're really close, and if she finds out-"

 

"If she finds out," he insisted, rolling his eyes, "she'll probably think you've finally had a high school exsistence." 

 

"You don't get it. My mother's a Southern belle debutaunte. She raised me to be a lady, not sleep on some random guy's chest because she's too tanked to find her way home."

 

"Hey, I'm not just some random guy-- I'm also your new party animal mentor. And I don't see you complaining," he teased. Amanda blushed, thinking of how silly she seemed, and sat up.

 

"I don't know... I don't want to lie to my mom, but I really don't want to get caught.... What would you tell her, if you did help me?"

 

Kingsley shrugged. "Only a little white lie."

 

Sitting up, Kingsley grabbed hold of her hand and lead her through the conjoined kitchen. The place smelled of coffee, which made Amanda smile and take a deep breath. Nix and Lucy were having an obvious-to-everyone-but-them romance moment, talking with their heads bent down close to each other, and Slater was stuffing his mouth with Cheerios. When Amanda reached for a mug on the counter, Kingsley slapped her hand away.

 

"Alright, kiddies, I'm taking Puke Princess over here home. Save me some coffee," he grinned, Lucy eyeing him, a teasing smile tugging on her lips. He simply rolled his eyes and lead Amanda away like she was a puppy or something. Only after they settled in his nice, leather-seated sports car parked on the curb at the end of the cul de sac did Amanda actually say something intelligent. Taking in the black leather seats, and the shiny rims that glinted in the sunlight, he looked like a child in a candy shop.

 

"You like cars," Amanda asked, although it was more of a statement, taking in his expression with a hint of amusement lighting up her features. Kingsley nodded, and chuckled slightly.

 

"Yeah... My mom," he voice growing thick momentarily before his cleared his throat, "had this awesome red classic muscle car. I used to, uh, sit in the front seat. I mean, I don't remember it-- I was only four or five-- but my dad used to tell me the story all the time."

 

Amanda smiled, picturing a little curly-haired, blue-eyed, rose-kissed toddler. She could almost feel the soft little dimples on his chubby thighs, and watch him in amusement as he tried to steady his little waddle. The thought made her want to coo over him, but then realizing the silliness, simply grinned.

 

"What happened to it," she asked, smling as he pulled off the curb and onto the street.

 

Kingsley, seeming distracted and trying to avoid the topic, swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed. "Um, we sold it, after she died."

 

"Oh. I'm sor-"

 

"Please don't say it," Kingsley insisted, holding up a hand in refusal, never taking his eyes off the road. Amanda, looking to see they were on Parker Street, pointed left. Kingsley obliged before continuing. "It was almost thirteen years ago. I hardly remember her."

 

It was a lie. He didn't remember what she looked like when she was alive-- he didn't remember her laugh, or the way she cried late at night, or how happy she'd get after some of her friends would come over, locking the door behind them and leaving Kingsley alone in his toy room-- but he would never forget what she looked like lying on the bathroom floor.

 

"Right... sorry. I mean....- Oh, take a right up here."

 

"I know," he said simply, taking a right, like she said, on Turner Street. Confused, Amanda furrowed her brows.

 

"How do you know?"

 

"Everyone knows where the famous Amanda Nichols lives," he insisted, as though the answer was obvious, shrugging his shoulders. Amanda snorted, and shook her head.

 

"What exactly am I famous for?"

 

"I don't know. Being the head cheerleech, captain of the Bulldrags-"

 

"Co-captain" she insisted with an eyeroll, before slapping his shoulder lightly and narrowing her eyes at him. "And it's the Bulldogs."

 

"Right, bitches," he shrugged, catching sight of her scowl and grinning bemusedly before continuing his earlier roll, "-and, for being the walking social stigma of skinny, blond girls everywhere. Every girl wants to be you; every guy wants you. Isn't it all obvious and very stereotypical," he asked, a brow quirking in her direction before he pulled onto Olive Street.

 

Amanda frowned, anger making her purse her lips, and glared at him. She was not steroetypical! She was a unique person, all her own. How dare he-

 

"And you're the class stoner who will flop out of high school, and end up at Dairy Queen, serving frosties until you're thirty-five."

 

 Kingsley laughed, and wagged a finger mockingly in her face. "Ah, Amanda, sweet, niave Amanda. See, I'm not exactly stereotypical," he insisted, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, "because  I am a rich stoner. I can work at Daddy's firm, and get as high as I want without having to worry about working at said Dairy Queen. I can afford my lifestyle."

 

"Whatever. Turn up here," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring out he window as he pulled up in front of her house. The old, stone mansion loomed over them, and the anger Amanda had been harvesting seeped a bit, fear replacing it. She grabbed hold of his hand, tightly, and looked into his blue eyes. "What are you going to say? She won't possibly trust a guy to bring me home from a party-"

 

"Amanda, calm down. Look, I've got this in the bag," he insisted, opening his car door and stepping out into the early morning sun. Reaching into his pocket, he held out two Aspirins for her presumed headache. Amanda took them, and searched through her purse momentarily before finding the water bottle left over from cheerleading practice. Swallowing the pills, she gave him a watery smile as they began walking up the path to the front door. Right before they reached the door, Amanda felt her fingers curl around his. She needed strength; appearantly, Kingsley Abraham was a secret Superman.

~~~

 

 Lucy glanced over at him once again, the syrupy sweet feeling in the pit of her stomach blooming as his fingers brushed against hers. Mind you, he was simply grabbing her coffee cup and placing it in the sink, but she still smiled. The next morning had been kind of weird, waking up to Nick Keatings spooning her backside. After crawling out of her make-shift bed, Lucy had walked into the kitchen, her stomach growling for hot coffee and a couple of Aspirin.

 

"-telling Matt would be a pretty big blow to him and... ugh, I don't know.... Luce, what should I do? You've got a head on your shoulders," Nix sighed, running his fingers through his cropped hair. Lucy giggled, her fingers tracing the red squares on the gingham table cloth, and let her eyes meet his momentarily.

 

"I think...," she began, her voice drawling, a small smile crinkling the corners of her big brown eyes, "I think you shouldn't worry so much. At least, not for now. For now, we should just relax and let this hangover take its course."

 

Nick chuckled, a small smile breaking the agitation on his face like a shattered mirror, before letting the guilt eat at his stomach. Why did he feel like this was his fault? Why was he so darn irresistable, he wondered bemusedly. What did Amy even see in him?

 

The question burning the tip of his tongue, he turned to Lucy asked, in a voice so confused and sweet, "What is so great about me, anyways?"

 

"Excuse me," Lucy giggled over the rim of her coffee cup, arching a brow after a long sip of black coffee, bitter on her lips.

 

"Well, why does she even like me," he asked again, this time seriousness making itself known. Lucy shrugged, before really thinking about his question.

 

"Well," she drawled, her eyes flickering heavenward like she had to think long and hard about the question, "there's that rock solid bod of yours."

 

Nick chuckled, so absorbed in Lucy he almost hadn't noticed when Slater slithered out of the kitchen, and nodded. "Of course. I am probably the hottest guy you'll ever meet."

 

"And you're modest," Lucy added teasingly. "And... and you're kind of sweet, in an annoying, snoopy sort. You're not a total eyesore, either. I'd rate you a solid two."

 

"Why, that is such a confidence boost," he joked, nudging her arm playfully, "I might just take the paper bag off my face."

 

"You're funny, too," Lucy insisted, nudging him back before glancing at the empty cup in front of them. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she hopped from her spot and seemed to dance around the kitchen, cleaning up the mess they had left around the kitchen. Placing their mugs in the sink, she hastily mopped up the brown coffee rings left on the table and glanced at Nick. No, he wasn't an eye sore; he was pretty sweet; he made her laugh, more than she was used to.

 

"Hey, Lucy," Slater called from the other room, drawing her attention from Nick. He looked up, towards the doorway, and stood, only to freeze when Lucy shook her head and left the room. He stood there, taking her head shake as a refusal to let him follow, and yet just a bit of curiousity had already seeded itself in his brain. Interested, he lingered towards the doorway, until he could faintly hear their conversation.

 

"-have the money or not, Lucy? I'm running a business here," Nick heard Slater snap, which ignited an anger in him. In the moment, Slater sounded just a bit too much like Jack for Nick's liking. "I have the pills, now I just need you to cough up the eighty."

 

Nick felt a steel hand clamp onto his stomach. Was Lucy... buying drugs? Surely they're for Kingsley, he told himself, even though that idea only made him less settled.

 

"Relax, Slater," he heard Lucy sigh, like a tide rushing in, wiping away any anger he had earlier felt. "I'll have the money soon, I promise. I-I just need to tell my dad it's for art supplies or something."

 

It isn't your place to be involved, Nick reminded himself, despite the hurt he began feeling. Maybe not direct hurt, but... disappointment, for Lucy. The sound of footsteps nearing made him jump from the doorway, pretending to be interested in the dirty dished piling up in the sink. He turned, his shaking hands submerged in the bubbly dish water, grasping for the dirty dishes, just as Lucy entered the room, her curls bouncing.

 

"What was that about," he asked, trying to sound nonchalant as he placed a half-heartedly washed dish on the counter. Lucy just chook her head.

 

"Nothing. He, uh, lost his phone in the couch," she insisted, her eyes not quite meeting his.

 

 "Oh," he muttered, more disappointment rooting itself in his gut. She didn't seem to notice his sullen tone and went back to picking up dirty dishes.

 

"So, um, I can drive you home, if you want," he offered, licking his lips and trying to forget what he had just heard. Lucy glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled.

 

"That'd be perfect."

~~~

 

 

Amanda was not kidding when she told Kingsley her mother was the debutant of Hamilton. As soon as the supermodel Southern belle also known as Savannah Jane Nichols answered the door, revealing the gleaming marble floors of the entryway and the winding staircase, Kingsley felt as though this lying thing relied soley on him.

 

"Amanda, " she sighed in a thick Georgian accent that made an uneasy smile quirk on her daughter's lips, "where were you!? We tried callin' your phone last night, but you didn't even pick up."

 

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Kingsley insisted, jumping at the oppurtunity to explain, drenching his voice in a fake accent that sounded so uncannily convincing Amanda looked a little shocked. "It was my fault. We got home late, and all the girls wanted to sleep in. I simply couldn't wake them."

 

Savannah Jane, blinking and  flickering her eyes towards her daughter momentarily, let her brows furrow in confusion. "And who are you, darlin'?"

 

"Oh, where are my manners," Kinglsey cried, Amanda still staring at him, her mouth slightly agape, "I'm Erica's cousin, Blake. I just got in from Atlanta, and am visiting for a few months. I was the one who dropped the girls off at the party, and this morning I just let them sleep. They were all exhausted from cheerleading practice, and they only spent a good hour and a half at that party before callin' it quits." He chuckled, like this wasn't some imporvised lie he was spewing as soon as the thought came to mind. Amanda was very surprised at Kingsley's acting skills. She finally understood how he managed to stay in most classes while stoned.

 

 "Amanda," Savannah sighed, looking disappointedly at her daughter before smiling at Kingsley, "you're lucky such a curtious gentleman brought you home."

 

Amanda didn't even bother to mention that fact that he was the one who had basically drugged her, without her knowledge, and only nodded.

 

"Yep, Blake here is just the perfect gentleman," she said begrudgingly, glancing at a smug Kingsley out of the corner of her eye.

 

"Are you thirsty, darlin'? I think we have some iced tea in the kitchen if you'd like to come in," Savanah began, smilng down at Kingsley.

 

"Oh, no, Blake here has some errands to run for Erica-" Amanda began, glaring at Kingsley and hinting he should get lost within the next few nano-seconds. Ignorant to her annoyance, Kingsley smiled at Savannah Jane.

 

"Actually," Kingsley grinned, "I'd love some."

 

The Lunchtime Attack

 

 

Lunch, on Monday of the next week, couldn't be explained in words. 

 

It started out normal enough, for Amy Herring, who was regailing her tale of her drunken one-night-stand to Amanda. She had told Amanda of how she managed to barely avoid both Nix and Matt, up until Nix walked right up to their table. 'Darin Brighton, who?', Amy thought, trying her hardest not to stare. Nix's dirty blond hair was touseled like someone had just run their fingers through it; his Rolo eyes were lit with an amber fire that made Amy both confused and intrigued. He looked even hotter when upset.

 

"Amy," he snarled, Amy's syrupy sweet feeling diminishing from the pit of her stomach like water evaporating, glaring at her, "what does Matt know?"

 

"About what," she smiled, trying to act slightly seductive and trailing her ruby red fingernails down his arm. He ripped it away, the way you would to a spoiled child, and stiffened his upper lip.

 

"About that stupid plan you had Friday night. Does he know you wanted cheat on him," Nix snapped, his words hitting her like a blizzard. She glanced around the Quad, wondering if anyone had heard. A few people glanced over, busybodies, before catching Amy's glare and turning back to their lunch.

 

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," she lied airily, the alarm rising her voice another octave.

 

"Oh, don't play that shit, Amanda told me," he insisted. Amy blanched, and glanced over at her friend, who embarrassedly ducked in her seat.

 

"Ames, you know I didn't mean to-" Amanda began, only to be cut off by Nix.

 

"You don't breathe a word about this to anyone. Especially not Matt. I don't want to hear from you. That means don't text, don't call, don't even fucking MySpace me," he continued, making Amy shrink like a cartoon character. As if to dig the knife deeper, Lucy Edwards walked over, plaing a hand on Nix's forearm.

 

"Hey, c'mon, let's just go eat," she offered, her wide brown eyes pleading with him. His eyes darted, from Lucy to Amy, before he gave his so-called friend another glare and stalked off after the petite brunette. The whole episode lasted five minutes, and yet it was enough time for Amy to stand from her spot and grab her purse.

 

"Ames, you know I never meant to-"

 

She didn't listen to what Amanda had to say, and only trudged off the Quad, hoping to find peace in the girl's bathroom. Once in a stall, locked and smelling of urine, Amy took a deep breath. It scraggeled out of her, leaving her shaken. Rejection hit her hard in the gut, tasting like pennies on the tip of her tongue. Five minutes, and she felt like speeding out of Hamilton in her BMW before word caught wind that Nix Keating had totally broken her heart. Amy sniffed at that thought, brandishing herself with an iron suit. No, she wasn't heartbroken, just hurt and surprisingly disappointed. How do you idolize someone for years and then suddenly stop having feelings for them, simply because they told you to, Amy wondered, her stomach tightening. What if Nix told Matt?

 

She wiped that thought from her head like cleaning a chalkboard. Out of sight, out of mind, she reminded herself, taking another deep breath. Her numb hands reached for gum or breathmints, something to keep her mind off the ringing in her ears, when she found a familiar slip of paper, a name scrawled across in big, bold writing. A smile involuntarily tugged at her lips, and before she could think things through, she dialed the numbers. He answered on the first ring.

 

"Hey, Darin," she smiled into the reciever, "it's Scarlette. I've had a crappy day, and I'm free later... I just wanted to know if you wanted to get drinks...?"

 ~~~

 

 

Lucy was acutely aware of all the stares directed her way. They felt like needles on her skin, the sneers of cheerleaches and pea-brained jocks burning her golden flesh.

 

Their table was a myriad of characters-- Amanda, in her golden uniform, looking surprisingly content as Kingsley teased her; Nix, peeling the purple flesh off his grape with his teeth, a goofy grin tugging at his lips; Kingsley, almost... was he...? Flirting? He rolled his eyes at Amanda playfully, teasing her about something she had drunkenly slurred at the party the weekend before-- and Lucy smiled despite the stares directed her way. She then glanced at Nix, her smile fading. How had he done this, she wondered. How had he so quickly warped her view of the people who bullied her, who made Hamilton High an intolerable, eight-hour prison sentence?

 

The sunlight licked at his golden skin, his eyes a sparkling caramel as the light bounced into the shadowed caverns of his sunken eyes, the light blond hairs on his forearms looking like wheat. The cool autumn air made his cheeks rosy, which was a reminder that he wasn't quite a man despite the stubble that crept up on his face. His rosy cheeks made him look juvenile. The pale purple skin stuck to his lip, from the grape he had popped into his mouth. Her eyes lingered on his lips, pink and plump, as he spoke. She wasn't sure why, but in the moment she was wondering what his lips would taste like.

 

"-like, totally failed that test," Nick insisted, a spark in his eyes. Lucy, blinking, tore her eyes away from the shining white pearls of his teeth and creases of pink flesh, and furrowed her brows. Nick chuckled, nudging her playfully. "And to think, I thought you were a great listener. Looks like I'm going to have to unload all this Amy drama onto someone else."

 

"No, you're right," she laughed, "I'm horrible at this, the whole listening to drama thing. I'm sorry, I was just... distracted."

 

Nick chuckled, and shrugged, his smile fading for a moment. His eyes flickered upwards, and felt his stomach tighten. The geeky, awkward boy walking alone, his shoulders hunched and collar of his jacket licking his jawline, had bent glasses. Michael Brown walked like he was expecting to get hit. Lucy seemed to notice, and glanced up, smiling lightly at the shy boy.

 

"Hi, Michael," she waved, her slender fingers wagging like a dog's tail. Michael grinned, a nod of acknowledgement thrown her way, before seeing Nix and blanching.

 

"H-Hey, Lucy," he stuttered, pushing his bent glasses up his nose. Nix felt a pant of regret in his stomach, as he tried to make eye contact with the kid.

 

"You know Nick, right," Lucy asked, gesturing between the two. Nix didn't know if she had a clue about the football players beating up Michael, and yet he had no way of finding out. Instead, he smiled and stood, clapping hands with the other guy. Michael seemed to shake, as Nick pulled him into a bro-hug.

 

"Yeah, Mike and I go way back," Nick joked, pleading for Michael to keep his mouth shut. Michael seemed to get the hint, and nodded quickly.

 

"I-I, uh, was gonna see if you wanted to eat lunch with me, but-"

 

"Oh," Lucy jumped, "why don't you join us? Matt is supposed to be over here soon-"

 

Michael's eyes seemed to become saucers, the light blue irises looking like the paint on fine china plates, and he shook his head furiously. "N-No! I have this thing, in the science wing... I-I'll just talk to you later."

 

He didn't say another word, and simply shuffled away like he had ants in his pants. Lucy quirked a brow after him, watching in the dull sunlight and hearing the laughter of other students.

 

"What was his problem," she wondered, turning to Nick and hoping to get his input. "He looked like he saw a ghost."

 

Nick shrugged, hoping she didn't ask anymore questions; he was a horrible liar.

 ~~~

 

"Ohmygod," Leah Hopkins cried, bouncing through the halls. Amy, glancing at her right flank and watching the Juicy-sweat-clad cheerleader skip, the spring in her step reminding Amy of a bouncy ball. It was perky, and annoying, mildly stated. Amy rolled her eyes, and slumped against her locker, dialing the code but to no avail. With a sigh of frustration, she tried again, only to have a large, masculine hand clamp over hers. She didn't even have to turn around to know it was Matt. 

 

She lifted her face, baby blues making her heart do the tiniest of jigs, nothing compared to the throbbing in her chest when Nix smiled at her. The baby blues, which were crinkled into a half-smile, grew closer until she felt the heat of his lips on her cheek. A quick peck, and yet his arms wrapped around her waist like he never wanted to let her go. He was making this whole 'I-had-a-one-night-stand-and-am-love-with-your-best-friend-thing' so much harder. 

 

"Hey," he smiled, pulling her fingers from the lock and dialing the numbers he knew by heart. It swung open on his first try. 

 

"Hey," she offered, weakly. Matt didn't seem to notice, and wove his fingers through hers. 

 

"So, what were you 'Ohmygod'ing about," Matt asked, crinkling his brows. Amy shrugged, and glanced at Leah. 

 

"What's up?"

 

Leah's eyes lit with excitement and she bounced, remembering her news. With a swish of her blond ponytail, she gave them both a devious smirk. 

 

"Guess who I just saw?"

 

"Who," the couple asked in unison, Matt's fingers trailing the length of her arm. Amy shivered, although not exactly in pleasure. 

 

"The new drama teacher. And, like I said before, 'Ohmygod'," she squealed. Amy rolled her eyes and Matt winked at Leah. 

 

"Good use of vocabulary," he joked, a teasing smile on his lips, "You might just floor him with your extensive use of the word 'Ohmygod'."

 

Amy snorted, before she could stop herself, and Leah looked at him before shaking her head and continuing. 

 

"Anyways, I think he might just be the hottest teacher since Mr. Bell."

 

Amy crinkled her nose like she smelled something bad. "Mr. Bell had a beer gut and had coffee-stained teeth."

 

Leah just rolled her eyes. "He had pretty eyes though, and he always ate the apple I gave him before class. But anyways, Mr. Brighton is hot. Like third-degree burn kinda hot. He can keep me after class anytime."

 

Amy dismissed what she heard, until the name connected with a face. Brighton... Mr. Brighton... as in... Darin? Not knowing whether to get sick or call him in that moment and demand to know what was going on, she asked, "Brighton?"

 

It sounded weak, like a mouse's squeak. 

 

"Yep," Leah nodded, twirling her hair around her finger and craning her neck before lighting up like a Christmas tree. "There he is! He starts Wednesday, I think," she said absentmindedly, not even noticing when Amy began to shake and her throat constricted like she had swallowed bleach.

 

Amy stared at Darin Brighton, Mr. Brighton, in utter horror, while Matt steadied her. Darin, the Darin she just made plans to get drinks with, stood in a sea of Aeropostale t-shirts and Miss Me jeans and letterman jackets, wearing a pair of charcoal pants and a white button-down that Amy could of sworn she had seen lying on his floor along with the mess of her ugly blue dress. Amy felt like she was going to be sick.

 

"Hey, are you okay," Matt asked, tucking a wild strand of red hair behind her ear. Amy shook her head. 

 

"I-I'll be fine. It was nothing. Cramps," she babbled, before glancing down the hall once again. This time, Darin looked up. Right up, at her, out of everyone in the sea of cherleading skirts and high heels and diamond earrings. Recognition crossed his face, before Amy bolted down the hall and into the nearest restroom. She needed to escape. Now.

 ~~~

 

The final bell rang, announcing freedom to the caged high school zoo, and kids filed out of the front doors, streaming onto the sidewalk. Kingsley Abrahams stood like a rock in a stream of salmon flying upstream, people swerving out of his way like he had some plague. A few people snickered at him, at his handiwork, and he stood to admire it too. Eric Sander's red 2002 Mercedes Benz was now looking like a ball of tin, the red body bent like a disfigured doll. 

 

 A few kids oohed, and some of the football players began laughing. Up until Eric parted the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea, and his jaw dropped to the toes of his sneakers. His eyes flickered from his car, to the baseball bat resting on the asphalt, to the smirk on Kingsley's face. 

 

Kingsley felt a rush ripple through him, through his veins. It was better than any drug he had used before; the sweet taste on his tongue was revenge and the smugness of knowing that he had created this beautiful mess. Eric's face was as red as a tomato; his fists clenched at his sides and his nostrils flared like an angry bull. 

 

It was still unclear of what happened between the two of them, but both held quite a solid grudge. Eric looked around the gathered crowd before his eyes settled on Kingsley, and a match was lit beneath him. He lunged at the dark-haired boy, who took it with grit teeth. They both fell to the ground with a thud, a tangle of limbs and fists and hard kicks. No one tried to break up the fight, if anything corralling them, a crowd gathering to watch this trapeze act sans the nets. 

 

Just as Eric had Kingsley on his back, a fist raised, a soft hand wrapped around his arm and kept him from swinging. He blinked, and jerked his arm away, turning to see that girl from the party, Saturday night. Amanda, he faintly remembered, right before she tore him from the dark-haired stoner beneath him.

 

"Break it up," she called, dropping Eric's arms and rushing over to Kingsley, who shot her a devilish grin despite the blood that had trickled from his lip. "God, what are you doing," she hissed to him, dragging him to his feet. 

 

Kingsley raised a brow, trying his best to look exasperated. "Me?! Panda, why, I'm innocent-"

 

"Bullshit," Eric hissed, glaring at the other boy, with a venom lacing his voice. Amanda's eyes flickered between the two before she sighed, taking Kingsley's arm. 

 

"Kingsley," Amanda said much more quietly, relieved that some of the crowd had dispersed and found their ways to their parked cars, "Kingsley, what did you do?"

 

He shrugged, and rolled his eyes like it was no big deal. "Panda, I told you, I didn't do anything. He started it; I am simply ending it."

 

"Yeah, with a new paint job and-"

 

"Shut up, both of you," Amanda hissed, eyeing the doors of the main entrance and wondering when a teacher would come and take them off her hands. Crossly, she eyed Kingsley, her lips curling into a snarl. Of course he would do something this stupid! She honeslty shouldn't have put it past him, despite how he could sometimes be manageable. 

 

"C'mon, let's get your lip looked at," she sighed, grabbing hold of Kingsley arm and leading him away. 

 

"That's it," Eric cried from behind her, "You're just going to walk off?! Have a girl fight for you?!"

 

Kingsley twitched, the slightest jerk of his shoulder, but Amanda held onto him tightly. She lead him like a dog on a leash, anger fueling her actions as she pushed the wide front doors open and marched through the thinning hallways. She paused momentarily, in front of the girl's restroom, before kicking the door open and leading Kingsley inside. 

 

"Getting it on in the girl's bathroom. Kinky, Panda," Kingsley chuckled, only recieving a glare in return. She steered him towards the sink, pressing his back against the sink. Instead of kissing him, though, she slapped him hard across the shoulder. He flinched, and stumbled, surprised by her anger. 

 

"Ouch," he hissed, cradeling his arm like an injured warrior and not some idiot whose just begging to be suspended. 

 

"God, you are stupid," she stressed, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser. Wetting it with cold water from the tap, she grabbed hold of his bloodied bottom lip. He winced, his brows furrowing in pain, as she pressed the freezing damp towel to his lip, which was staining the brown paper a deep scarlet. "Do you want to get kicked out?!"

 

"No," he mumbled, his words muffled by the paper, "but Panda-"

 

"I mean, seriously, Kingsley you're lucky Principal Tate wasn't walking around. He could have caught you two fighting, and you probably would have been expelled!"

 

"Amanda-"

 

"And if I were Eric I would have beat you up too. Jeez, Kingsley what were you thinking?!"

 

"I'm thinking," he drawled, a small smile climbing on his lips as he pulled the towel from his lip momentarily, "Amanda the Ice Queen might just be thawing a bit. Amanda, is that... is that concern in your voice? For moi?"

 

He laid a hand over his heart dramatically, and batted his dark lashes like a school girl. A blush picked at her cheeks, and she quickly turned her attention from the smile curling his lips and sparklings eyes to the cut on his lip. It was not nearly as bad as it looked in the parking lot, and yet she couldn't look his in the eyes. The smile fell from his mouth, and he sucked in a breath as she pulled the towel from his lips. 

 

"He talked about my mom, Amanda... the first fight, it wasn't because of drugs or anything," he insisted in a small yet steeled voice. Amanda felt herself withdrawing from him, momentarily. It was an odd thing to say, to think, when she had never met the woman, but Amanda felt a bit of pity for the woman. Even in the grave, her life was being speculated and criticized. 

 

"Kingsley," she persisted, her voice tired and soft, "that isn't a very good reason to beat someone up, and wreck their car."

 

"When it's my mom, anything is a good reason," he argued, crossing his arms in front of his chest. In that moment, he seemed to loom over her, his eye becoming lit by an angry fire in his eyes. 

 

"How'd she...," Amanda trailed off, taking a step backwards, unsure of how to ask the next question. 

 

"Die?"

 

Bluntness, she decided, was something Kingsley was abundant in. She nodded, feeling foolish and submissive. Kingsley offered her a small smile, before he admitted exactly what happened. 

 

"She, um, she OD'ed," he said, a blush spreading through his cheeks. He already knew what was racing through her mind, the moment the words slipped form his lips. Of course, poor wounded Kingsley would turn to drugs, the same thing that murdered his mother, because it somehow made him feel closer to her, or some other speil that belonged in a Lifetime movie. "And, I just do them... it helps, with stress," he added lamely, like he needed to explain himself to her. 

 

"Right," she sighed, sounding unimpressed.  

 

Impressum

Texte: I own this
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 13.05.2013

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