title: all the pretty ones
author: al-tothe-ex
rating: fairly strong t, for swearing and the mentions of underage drinking and other things that i've vaugely hinted at and left for your imagination
word count: 2,282
disclaimer: all characters belong to lisi harrison. title from a song by say hi, which isn't necessarily related to the story but could be if you wanted it to
a/n: written for katie's (city never sleeps) clique summer oneshot contest. i wasn't even sure i'd get something up for this, because my ideas kept changing. but here it is! and it's cassie to, which is like an added bonus considering i was thisclose to making it a massington. so revel in that, cassie fans.
-all the pretty ones-
You were smart enough to know that the phrase, "Party at my beach house tonight, Fisher!" normally coincided with more trouble than it was really worth. But, you were also smart enough to know that if you weren't there you'd end up missing something partially exciting or scandalous that would undoubtedly be talked about for days after. And missing that is about the equivalent of missing a week of Calculus and having a test the day you come back- you don't know what the fuck is going on and you're confused as to why you need to partake in a test about shit you don't know about.
That's why even after ten years you still couldn't quite figure out if being best friends with Derrick Harrington was a blessing or a curse. It seemed he only rolled out of bed for girls and parties, and with absentee parents those things were a regular occurrence. It's probably why he smiles so much.
You spent a good ten minutes in your car debating whether or not to show up. You'd more than likely miss someone vomiting up a lung on senior Missy Cambridge, sure, but strangely enough you didn't even think it was worth seeing over the newest edition to Dateline. But a quick flash of a typical Derrick Harrington teasing trip (what usually awaited you if you didn't go) was enough to get you to turn the ignition and get your old Jetta into drive. Hell, to avoid one of those you'd gladly take Missy's place under a fountain of upchucked bodily fluids.
Fast forward about an hour later you find yourself standing in a corner next to a large fig plant nursing a concoction of vodka and club soda. It was pretty gross, to say the least, but since you had it in your hands it was one drink your alcohol sponge-like friends could not get in their system. Considerate? You liked to think of yourself that way.
Derrick comes in the living room and, like the loud drunk that he is, shouts out above the loud bass and people's heads that they are lighting a bonfire on the beach and that it would be totally kick-balls if your mousy ass would join them and that you should get some of this new drink Plovert just invented down your Twinkie hole.
Now, you found a few things wrong with that statement, the first being the use of kick-balls (a phrase Derrick coined as the stupidest thing in the world because being kicked in the balls was not amazing or fantastic). Your description of being mousy was way off because you prided yourself in being one of the fittest boys of their grade and Derrick was well aware of that. Any beverage created by their good buddy Christopher Plovert had a ninety percent chance of sending you to the hospital and you didn't even know where to begin with 'Twinkie hole'.
But probably the most disturbing thing of all was the implied promise of drunks with a lighter. And as soon as that message sunk in, the fig plant next to you had the pleasure of soaking up your bland drink while you shoved your way to the back porch.
See, you took your role as the smart, sensible and responsible friend seriously. It seemed to be your task to keep your stupid friends out of trouble. You've given them the floor at the foot of your bed when they need to get over a hangover without their parents knowing. You've passed over science homework for them to copy when they're at the verge of failing. And, you've put a stop to their seemingly "good" ideas before they ended up in the ER.
Tonight would be no different.
Derrick's beach house rested a few yards off the shore of one of the only lakes in town. In the wintertime, when it froze over, you would date the other to go out as far as possible until the thin ice would crack under your weight (the record was about 10 ft in, as it never seemed to get quite cold enough). In the summer, you jumped off the dock, went inner tubing off the back of Derrick's family boat, or had the occasional bonfire. And though it was nearly the perfect night to have one, you figured it was your civic duty to stop it.
Unfortunately, by the time you made your way down the wooden stairs and onto the pebbly beach below, Josh Hotz had a few fire logs ablaze and Derrick was stumbling off to the garage to "find shit to burn".
Letting out an irritated sigh, you debate with yourself about putting it out when a voice speaks up from behind you.
"They're pretty amusing when they're shitfaced, aren't they?"
It's hard to say if you were surprised to see Massie Block there. She had a reputation, after all. One that was infused with rumor, scandal, and lots of hookups. She was the unofficial party girl at Westchester high, everyone knew that. But that idea always settled funny with you. You didn't see how someone who brought baby chicks in for show and tell back in the second grade could turn into the girl everyone talked about for all the wrong reasons. It didn't fit your picture of her. Even tonight, as she sits on a log a ways off to the side of the fire clutching a blue plastic cup, smirking with bright eyes, you didn't see the notorious party girl that everyone else saw.
"Amusing, yeah, until one's missing an eyebrow," You realize then that you've never had a conversation with her since freshmen year, when no one knew anything about anyone.
She shrugs. "At least it's better than getting a tattoo from some shady back alley artist."
Your mind goes wild with the possible locations of mentioned tattoo. You favor one in particular, and need to clear your throat after picturing it.
"So, um…" And let the awkwardness ensue. "Why're you out here by yourself?"
"It's a nice view." She pats the space of log next to her. "Come and see."
The offer took a hold of your imagination so greatly that you had to remind yourself that Massie Block went for the confident boys, like Derrick. Or the dangerous, like Griffin Hastings. The cocky (Kemp Hurely), the hot (Landon Crane), or the mysterious (Dune Baxter). But not the nice boys like Cam Fisher. No, you weren't exactly her type.
When you sat down, you saw what she meant by great view. Once you factor out the stumbling adolescents, the lake is actually quite serene at night. The lights from the party and the fire reflected off the surface and broke into what seemed like a billon pieces. You try to not sound like a five year old in a toy store when you agree.
"So," She takes a lengthy swig from her cup. "Cam Fisher. It's been a while, hasn't it?"
Derrick comes back from the garage with a few unlucky objects to be sentenced to the flames. Nothing appeared to be combustible, so you allow yourself to pay attention to the conversation a little more. "Indeed it has. What have you been up to for the past few years?" Not that you really had to ask; you had heard enough about her to write an unauthorized biography if needed.
But she plays it off nonchalantly. "Nothing really. Just a little growing and coming into my own, if you know what I mean."
"From what I heard, it hasn't been just your own," It was out before you realized what your mouth was forming.
Thankfully, all she does is smile. "I guess I deserved that one. I mean, I know what they say about me."
"I don't believe them. Just so you know." You want to hit yourself for sounding so eager-to-please, but for some reason you needed to make her believe that you didn't think anything less of her.
"Why?" Her nose is crinkled when she looks at you. You swallow. "You don't know me."
"Exactly."
It was only one word, a word that was barely just above a mumble. But she looks at you with such sincerity and earnestness you know that those rumors could never even begin to scratch the surface of who Massie Block was. But you? You were set on it.
The fire pops and you hear the chorus of Derrick and Josh whooping, but you couldn't really seem to care anymore. "So tell me something- if that's not really you, then why don't you say otherwise? Why not put a stop to it instead of letting them say what they want."
"Well, it's not like I haven't done those things, because I've done most of it. Well, done them," She grins at her little quip, not noticing your kicked expression. "So it's not like I have much to deny. And they need it. They always need someone to talk about, and if it's not me it's some other girl, a girl who doesn't have a thick skin as I do and who can't handle it and could do something drastic. I've figured that it's better me than her, you know?"
Strangely enough, you got what she was saying. And your view of her changed. Massie Block had heart beyond recognition, and yet she let people talk her down on a daily basis. You were stunned, and it took you a second to find the words to respond. "How martyr-like of you."
She gives a small smile. "I guess."
You stare into the flames of the fire, hardly paying any attention to the crowd that's now gathered around it. People are tossing things into it, everything from plastic cups and leaves to food from the kitchen. For a brief second you take a little satisfaction in knowing if they continued, something irreplaceable would be tossed in and Derrick would be in deep shit. But as for your conversation with Massie, this girl who has fascinated you ever since that moment you saw her stroking her chick with such affection a mother showed for her child, you had nothing. Thankfully, she spoke up.
"I have absolutely no fucking idea why I told you any of that," She sighs. "I mean, Jesus- I hardly know you."
You frown slightly. "We've been in the same class up until middle school."
"Yeah, but I don't know you. A macaroni picture of a rocket ship back from the first grade tells me nothing about your character now."
"You remembered I made a rocket ship?"
"Not the point. I just find it weird that I can trust you like this. You seem like a nice guy though."
There it was again- the 'nice guy'. Why was it always your identifier? You were pretty bad ass sometimes, even going as far as writing study guides on your hands come finals week. "Thanks," You utter. "And if it makes you feel any better, you're pretty nice yourself."
"Definitely not a raging slut?" She asks you hopefully, a whimsical grin planted on her face.
"Definitely not a raging slut," And as you repeat it, you notice how the small ring of gold around her pupils gleamed in the firelight. You noticed that she had freckles dotted across her nose and a more prominent one planted at the corner of her mouth. Jesus, her mouth. You absentmindedly lick your own semi-chapped pair at the sight of her lips. They looked soft, and suddenly you found yourself leaning in.
On a normal night when more rational thoughts passed through your brain, you're nearly positive that trying to kiss Massie Block would not happen. But it was a little too late to stop now. And when your lips touched hers, you braced yourself for the rejection. Though it never came. And you just about broke out in a stupid grin when you realized she was kissing you back.
You aren't quite sure what the hell happened next. What had started as a conversation about rumors, truths, and new understandings ended up with the two of you up in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It was a moment you thought would never happen. She smelled like smoke from the bonfire mixed with perfume and cucumber. Her skin was impossibly soft, so soft that for a few split seconds you had yourself convinced it was a dream.
And when it was over, she left in silence. Not that you expected a nice long chat about your feelings or anything, but you could admit you were a little disappointed in the aftermath. Excuse you for thinking you actually struck something earlier that night. But Massie Block was a riddle wrapped in a mystery, and you thought that perhaps she would never stop surprising you.
When you finally emerged and ventured back downstairs, you were greeted with an empty house littered with cups and napkins. Someone was passed out on the living room couch, but you couldn't find it in your heart to be concerned for them.
Maybe if you had been just a little more, Massie would have stuck around. You wouldn't have been just another victim in her unexplainable and partially illogical mission to save the weak and low self-esteemed. Maybe you would've been so much more.
But you aren't. You're not anyone special, anyone books would be written about or awards would be named after. You're Cam Fisher, the nice guy.
That's all you would ever be.