Kyle. With his effortlessly styled golden blonde hair, brown eyes, pouty lips, black and white striped sweater, blue jeans and black Chucks, he definitely seemed like a Kyle. Hell, his mother could have named him Ezekiel and I’d have thought it was a great name. It’s him, he’s the defining factor. He’s what makes everything good, down to the chair he’s sitting on.
I look down at my sunshine yellow floral dress, my cute, backless purple flats with the double layer bow tie on top. I touch the top of the green bow on my head and self-consciously tug at the end of my wavy purple hair, suddenly feeling like an eye sore.
Boobs McGhee is all breasts, toned butt and curves and I’m all colors and patterns and curvy weirdness. Sarah-Sue is the perfect girl for Kyle. They are the quintessential high school couple. Like Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson, if Kyle and Sarah-Sue ever dated, you know they’d be built to last. He and I couldn’t be more different, yet when he looks at me, I feel like this boy sees me and accepts all that I am, in all my quirky, crazy wonder.
Mrs. McConnell starts issuing out responsibilities and I gladly take décor. Of course, Sarah-Sue has something to say about that.
“Mrs. McConnell, seriously,” she whines. “She’s gonna decorate the gym in, like, pastel and plaid or something!” Her high-pitched voice grates on my last nerve but I say nothing since on her best and peppiest day, she still could never out-style me.
“I mean, look at her!” She sweeps her hand to me and all eyes follow. “She’s so fashion backward it’s not funny.”
Her cheerleading drones snicker behind their manicured hands and I envision myself using telekinesis to pop their blonde heads off like that scene in that movie with the British time traveling secret agent.
“Sarah!” Mrs. McConnell admonishes, and I stand, because I’ll be damned if I let anyone fight my battles for me.
I just hope her boobs aren’t like air bags when I punch ’em…
“I think she looks cute,” his voice jumps in defense of me and everyone stills.
Kyle thinks I’m…cute?
“I think she’ll do a damn good job.” And he curses in front of teachers? Who is this boy?
“Really?” Sarah-Sue squeaks incredulously.
His eyes are intense on me when he says, “Hell yes.”
Yeah…no pressure at all.
Making masks is harder than I thought.
I’ve been on design duty for almost a week. I’d taken pictures of inside the gymnasium from different angles, had made color block outlines, and even preliminary designs. Yet, as I rip up the last failed mask, I despair that I’m not as creative as I thought.
“What the hell kind of theme is Night of a Thousand Faces anyway?” I mutter to myself as I stuff the fruits of my failure in the trash can.
“A fucking brilliant one,” a voice startles me from the door of the art studio.
It’s after school hours, so those who aren’t cheerleading are practicing, and those who aren’t doing any of those things are either home watching porn before the parentals get home, are getting high on weed or are binging video games. And I’m here.
Fun times.
“Who asked you?” I sass, still grumpy.
“You did, Crazy Hair,” he says matter-of-factly before walking in and jumping on the desk next to me.
Such grace and swagger this boy has. If it were me, they’d have to rush me to the hospital. My face would definitely have become intimate with the hard floor.
“I was speaking to myself,” I argue, jutting out my chin, stubborn as ever.
“So Crazy Hair is actually crazy,” he muses with a smirk on his succulent lips. “Who’da thunk it?”
I’m fuming and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because he’s so hot that I can’t stand it; or maybe it’s because he’s making fun of me and I want to tell him what part of hell to go…or maybe, just maybe, I like him so much that I want to lick his face.
Do not lick his face. Do not lick his face!
“My hair is not crazy,” I defend lamely.
“Yeah, whatever you say, Harley Quinn.”
And he knows comic book stuff! I stare at him dumbly, unable to believe that this too-cool-for-the-likes-of-me guy actually knows who Harley Quinn is enough to realize that the pigtails I put my hair in today is reminiscent of her.
The fates have decided. I should have this boy’s baby.
“Why’d you color your hair in the first place?” he asks, flipping the end of one of my pigtails. My stomach flips and I bite my lip liking his presence and attention way too much.
“I uh…you’ll think it’s dumb,” I mumble, looking away.
“Impossible,” he assures me, staring at me in this intense way that makes butterflies take flight in my belly.
Sneaking my hand up to tug on the end of one of my pigtails, I spill, “Well, I’ve always wanted to be different…unique. I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drum, ever since I was a kid. One day, before I moved here, my mom took me to the salon and I told her I wanted to change my hair color. She bargained with me, suggesting I put streaks in at first to see how I liked it, but I was adamant. Needless to say, when I saw my head of purple, I hated it.”
I chuckle at the memory. I was so horrified that I cried. It was an ugly shade of purple that made me look like an alien. Not my finest moment.
“I wanted the stylist to shave my head, but my mom insisted that I keep it. You’ll make mistakes along the way, kid. You just have to tit up.” Mimicking her voice from that day makes me smile. Mom sure had a way with words.
I continue recounting the memory, “The stylist decided to tone the shade down a bit, making my hair this lighter yet striking purple that made my eyes pop. I was mesmerized when she was done. And so I kept my hair like this.”
“What’s your natural hair color?” he questions.
“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you,” I quip. We burst into laughter together, but I eventually give in, unable to keep the truth from him. “I’m a brunette.”
He nods, a small smile playing on his lips as he takes in all I have said. I think we’re done talking about my hair when he says, “I’m glad it’s a different color. It’s uniquely you, even if it’s not natural.”
I warm at his compliment and turn away from him to refocus on my task in order to hide my blush. Why was he even still here?
“So, what’re you workin’ on?” he asks, jumping down from the desk, with equal grace and swagger, and taking a step toward me.
He looks over my shoulder at the design desk I’m at and the smell of him surrounds me like a blanket. Pod people jack my brain in that instance, and I take a big whiff, nose sounds and all. He smells of boy sweat, masculine perfume, and confidence. You can’t smell confidence, but if I had to put a smell to it, Kyle would be the face of it. Hell, I’d just bottle him up and market him to every high school girl across the state.
Because that’s not weird at all…
“Masks,” I answer robotically, the Pod people reminding me that I needed to speak.
“Why not just buy them?”
I almost shiv him with that suggestion. Seriously, he expects me to pussy out and take the easy way and make this event commercial and…poppy? Mark you, it’s the sane way, the normal way; but do I look like the typical high school girl that just gets a bunch of store-bought decorations and calls it a party?
As if…
“Because I want this to be an experience!” I answer emphatically. How do I make him get this?
I stand, pacing the floor, anxiety getting the best of me. I feel a Savannah rant coming on.
“It’s not enough that on a night like this, all we experience is the same old same old. I want this to be different, memorable. I want when they step through those doors…” I point to the general direction of the gym. “…that they are transported to another world; a world where they don’t have to be the jock, or the perky cheerleader, or the student body president, or the nerd, or the weird purple-haired gi
rl. That night, I want us all to chart a course for our own memories and know each other on a level where we’re not defined by the high school status quo. I don’t want it to be a factor in how we interact. The masks are just faces that we will give life to.”
At the end of my tirade, I almost expect to hear trumpets sound and applause ring out; but all I hear is silence…and the Pod people leaving me alone in the awkward quiet.
“Do not blame her crazy on us!”
Traitors.
Kyle is staring at me as if I just spoke French knowing he’s from Spain. My eyes go wide as space saucers and I quickly sit in a chair opposite him, freaking the fuck out.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God! Why did I just say all of that? I sound like a complete nut job!”
I start gathering up my bag and supplies, determined to high tail it to the mountains and become one with my hermit kindred. I hear they live a very simple life. I can do without dial-up for the rest of my life.
Or at least a month…
“Wait, wait.” His fingers encircle my wrist, stopping my movements.
Sparks shoot all over my skin and break out into gooseflesh as his warm touch holds me hostage. His eyes zero in on where his long fingers meet my skin and they furrow; almost like he is trying to figure out why he’s touching me.
Shh…just let it happen.
“Wait,” a hushed word that fills the room with a weight of wanting.
Is this how women feel in romantic movies and novels? As if the next word their love interest says can end them or start a fire? The person I am doesn’t like it, with her “love is cliché” beliefs, but the girl whose heart is racing, galloping like a horse on a racetrack, well she is lost in this moment. Lost in the boy who has lit a fire in her heart.
And he’s staring at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, tucking hair behind my ear. His eyes on my make me feel…special, squeamish but special.
“That was beautiful,” he finally says, his brown-eyed gaze rendering me speechless.
I can only nod as color creeps up my neck, embarrassment striking me red. If I’d opened my mouth, I would have surely said something creepy, like “you’re beautiful”, and I think I’ve suffered enough mortification for one day.
“Everything you said, I saw,” he continues, almost in awe. His eyes have a distant look in them as if he can see my vision now and it makes me fall that much deeper.
He gets me, and I’ve never had someone who does. Aside from my parents. And my hamster, Buddy Holly…God rest his little soul.
“I wanna help you create it,” he tells me.
My hand falls back to my side and I look down at it, confused, only now realizing two things: one, he had been holding my hand the entire time, a fact I didn’t realize until just now when he let me go. Two, I cannot handle him touching me. What is it about this boy?
“You want to…help me?” I understood what he meant; I just want him to keep talking.
His smooth, teenage voice slides over me and an ocean of feelings crash into me when he says, “Yes, I want you.”
Wedding bells sound off in the distance, doves are released, and white rose petals are thrown in our direction as we are proposed man and wife. I see it all in stunning three-D. Kyle wants me!
Oh, my God, he wants me! Holy crap on a cracker!
“Savannah?” he ventures. “You okay?”
“Huh? Oh…” I shake off the fantasy, wanting to show him that I’m not some weirdo – which is probably too late, but, whatever.
I clear my throat, needing to speak, because he deserves an answer, though he didn’t ask a question. He needs to know I feel the same way.
“I mean, I really want to, but if you don’t want my help, you know, i-it’s fine.” He rubs the back of his neck and stealthily smells his armpit.
I realize he’s nervous and I almost smile at how cute he is…and gross. But then my brain catches up with reality and I feel the slap little miss reality doles out when I realize what he’d actually said before I mentally went on our month-long honeymoon…
“I want to”, not “I want you.”
“I’ll just ah…I’ll just, um, leave you to it. Bye.” He tries to make a hasty retreat and it is my turn to stop him.
“No, wait!”
I jerk his hand back and the momentum knocks him into me. We tumble to the floor, him on top of me and his hand grabbing a healthy dose of boob. He stares at me and I get lost. Today marks the day I fell on my ass in love…or at the very least in lust.
I stare at this boy and I’m mesmerized. His brown eyes have tiny flecks of gold in them, his pouty lips are just a little cracked, but they are also begging me to kiss them. Or I think they are. I’m not sure at this point since my brain is currently between my legs. I’ve never felt anything like it!
Wetting my lips, my breathing intensifies. A tiny moan escapes my lips when he squeezes my breast slightly. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and dots of sweat form over his top lip. His head lowers the tiniest fraction and, good Lord, my heart starts racing like Secretariat at the fucking Belmont Stakes.
I want to tell him to hurry up and kiss me; that I’m as game as Mrs. Pacman, but Kyle clears his throat and blinks rapidly, effectively breaking the moment. Tears billow behind my eyelids when he helps me up and barely looks at me.
“A-Are you okay?” he asks, looking everywhere but at me.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Why would a boy like him be remotely interested in someone like me? I’m a freak, everyone thinks so, and now, apparently, he does too.
“I’m fine,” I reply curtly.
His eyes widen at my dismissive response and color stains his cheeks. He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck once again and sniffing his armpit. What is it with him?
“Well, uh…” He shoves his hands in his pockets and it is the second most uncool I have ever seen him. Armpit sniffing holds the top spot.
Every time I’ve seen him at school and in the one history class we share, he’s been charming, almost god-like, surrounded by a crowd of the coolest students in this school. Like attracts like, I guess. What I’m trying to say is, he usually has his shit together and a mere few minutes with me has him losing cool points.
I. Am. The plague.
“If you still wanna help, I could do with some,” I mumble, staring at my feet.
“Really?” Kyle squeaks, his shocked eyes finding mine. “I mean…great.” He quickly schools his features into one of indifference, hitching a shoulder up in a shrug.
“We can continue tomorrow, if you want,” I suggest, playing with the end of my hair nervously.
He doesn’t answer immediately, forcing me to look up at him. He has a small smile on his lips when he tugs my hair from my fingers. He stares at the purple tresses before letting it fall from his hand.
“I can’t wait,” he responds with a wide smile on his face. “I’ll bring the Pop-Tarts.”
Scrunching my nose up in confusion, I ask, “Pop-Tarts?”
“Yup, it’s brain food,” he answers, as if it’s the simplest answer in the world.
I laugh loudly, unable to contain myself, which only makes him smile bigger.
“You do that, Mister. I’ll just bring this belly,” I concede, tapping my stomach for emphasis.
He laughs a throaty laugh that has my ovaries exploding, and just like that…
The wedding is back on.
Kyle – Past
Did she hear what I’d just said? If she did, she doesn’t let on that she had.
I feel like an idiot whenever I’m around this girl. I’d seen her in the halls before with her beautiful purple hair and a presence. I was drawn to her from the very beginning, so of course I’d jumped on board to be on the committee for the Tenth-Grade formal. She was on it.
Today was an epic fail. Why would she even be interested in me? I see the way every guy in this school looks at her and how they try to get her attention. She could have whoever she wanted. I
might be popular, but I wouldn’t stand a chance against a senior who wants her. She seems like the type who likes them mature…
And me sniffing my armpit like a tool really isn’t.
I just hope she didn’t feel that stiffy…
Chapter Two – Must Be Something in the Water
Savi – Present
THE TIMING WAS always wrong for Kyle and me. Whether it was an almost kiss interrupted by one of our parents, a confession of love disrupted by the sound of the school’s fire alarm, or a perfect moment ruined because of a girlfriend whose precious dog got hit by a car…that may or may not have been my doing…
It was never a good time to be together, never a good time for me to tell him how I felt, never a good time period.
The one thing I could count on was his friendship. We were loyal to each other, a friendship forged out of necessity. Much as I loved thinking that I was self-reliant back then, I needed a friend like Kyle. I guess I was just scared to lose it.
Savi – Past
16 years old
October 2005
Over the months since Kyle and I first met, we got to know each other better. The days after school when it would just be us – away from the cheerleaders, the spotlight, the popularity – were the best moments of my life. I learned so much about Kyle and so much about myself in those moments.
Like the fact that I really did need help. Who else was going to climb that fifty-foot ladder to hang those decorations for the ball? I’m every woman, but I wasn’t that kind of woman.
Or girl. Whatever.
I learned that Kyle was an only child up until eight years ago. He’d caught his parents getting busy in his bedroom one afternoon when he got home from little league, and nine months later, out came their tiny bundle of joy…on June 7th, my birthday! So, it went without saying that Joy Moxam was my favorite person on earth. Not to be outdone by his kid sister, Kyle ramped up the charm, dug deep and now we are inseparable.
Day in, day out, I found out how funny, charming and driven Kyle was. I could see why so many of the girls who went to our school were smitten with him. He could be goofy yet extremely sweet, an ass yet completely thoughtful. And he was my friend.
Better Late Than Never Page 2
