i'm in love with my own sins
-:-
You are now a beautiful sixteen year old; you've got solid A's in all of your classes, your teachers are wrapped around your Tiffany golden banded slender finger, your group of friends are a firm tight-knit group, you've captured the it boy of your grade and now you're sauntering along the hallways like it's a runway.
To say you aren't on top of your game would be the biggest understatement of the new year of twenty-eleven.
He's the perfect boyfriend, captain of the boys' varsity soccer team: The Tomahawks, (he's leading them to victory! –Kemp Hurley stated blatantly one drunk evening,) he is the eye-candy to every single (and taken) girl in Briarwood Academy, he's got good grades, and he's the star forward (and player) of his entire soccer team. Every girl kills to get him to glance in their general direction while (he gives you soft kisses under the moonlit sky on November evenings,) they even get into physical cat fights just because (they're jealous of you.)
He's the epitome of perfect. Blindingly white never-needed-braces teeth, crooked half-smile that causes crimson cheeks to ignite and flame, never-gets-hat-hair from his cap, brown tresses of some-what spiked hair, icy blue irises that practically fucking (radiate/glow/sparkle/shine/smolder.)
Danny Robbins: boy wonder, captain of the soccer team (and every girl's dream prince/Romeo/knight in shining armor), once-competed against perfection but whisked perfect of its ballet toes.
Your sun—your virtue.
-:-
Your grip on his hand is loose and friendly, he's never been one for parties or booze or even the boisterous music that pulses from surround-sound Boze speakers. He slips his fingers from yours and wraps a slender arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him and farther from the grinding figures under the dim hazy ear-piercing (deafening) room.
"Want a drink?" He asked politely, ever-so-the gentlemen and prince-charming of the twentieth century.
Step aside Romeo.
Infamous, Danny Robbins has taken Westchester, New York (Briarwood Academy) by storm and he's managed to sweep the feet of the female population (without wearing tight pants.)
Take that, Romeo.
"Sure," You replied, glancing around the room. The lights, colors of blue, red, pink, yellow, green assortments dance along the walls of the room.
This is your ballroom; this is your Cinderella scene.
And you've come attired in a yellow dress that costs more than half these girls' houses; white heels that (don't fit as well or comfortably as Cinderella's…but close.)
He's the perfect gentlemen, fetching you a non-spiked glass of blood-red fruit-punch, Ralph Lauren suit intact with a yellow tie dangling. He matched your dress.
Danny Robbins: 2
Romeo Montague: 0
"Let's dance," you begged, growing tired of sitting on the sidelines with dear Danny-boy who didn't want to mingle with the many girls who were drooling from the rims of their gloss-stained lips.
"You can," he allowed, sheepishly not meeting your eyes. "But I'm not feeling too well, my love,"
His excuses fall like ashes from the most recent devastating fire to claim one of Westchester's mansions, burning like wood and tumbling with a loud thump.
"Fine," you snapped, losing patience with your prince. He's a prince but he sure as hell doesn't know how to party.
You danced your way through the many bodies, pointedly jabbing the boys who got a little—too close—and rolled your eyes and tried to ignore the vexing girls who whispered and spread gossip like fire catching touch with a dry wooden forest.
You find yourself dancing with a random redheaded male, he's a head taller than you, (unlike Danny who's your height,) he's got the greenest emerald orbs you've ever gazed into, trying to inconspicuously scrutinize his face. His smile is bright and genuine and you note happily and gratefully he's not dirty-dancing you.
"What's your name?" He questioned with those irking eyes, a smile playing on his cherry-red lips. Somewhat chapped.
"It's a secret," you play along with his game. You flash him a breath-taking grin and run a hand through your tresses.
"I can keep secrets," he whispered closely in your diamond studded ear (courtesy to Danny,) while flashing white fangs. "Promise," he assured with earnest eyes.
His face is colored by the probing lights that fell onto your faces.
"Nope," you firmly said, wrapping an arm around his neck. You try not to stand on your tippy-toes (as tempting as that idea seems to be,) and temporarily forget about prince charming Daniel J. Robbins.
Your phone vibrates in your dress pocket and your cheeks flame heatedly. He arches a single eyebrow.
"Prince charming?" He guessed half-heartedly, not meeting your curious gaze.
You read the text with your heart-far-from-your-bare sleeved arm.
M,
Going home b/c 2 sick. Call u 2morrow. Im so srry. I promise 2 make it up 2 u. dont have 2 much fun w/out me.
Xoxo, D
"Yep," you admitted unwillingly, snapping your phone shut without another word.
All of a sudden, the world didn't seem to rotate as paced anymore. The axis must've screwed up because things were spinning faster and you just needed to runaway (like all true classic fairy-tales.)
"I'm going to be sick," you muttered, dashing for the mahogany doors. Cliché has always been your forte.
Your white heel pops off. You hesitate for a moment, contemplating the idea of picking it back off (but if you're going to be playing the role of Cinderella, you might as well play a damn good game of it.)
As predicted like any good cliché, he's on your trail, panting and calling out the color of your dress.
"Yellow-dressed girl!"
"Wait up, yellow-dress,"
"Wait!"
You suit Cinderella well.
-:-
You called Danny at 11:24 A.M. (knowing that if you didn't, he'd worry.)
"Hey, sorry about last night," You can picture his inflamed cheeks. You half-smile; your mind is not quite there today.
"It's okay."
"I'll make it up to you," he repeated with a tired voice.
"You don't have to," you shortly replied, tightly closing your eyes to remember the events of last night; folding out into a dream-like movie.
Danny Robbins always meant what he said.
"I love you, you know that, right?" He said after a pregnant pause over the phone.
"Yes," you sighed tiredly. "I know that."
Another quiet pause engrosses the two of you.
"Do you love me too?" He asked, almost expectantly.
No. "Yes."
You have been a good actress since sixth grade when you starred in the all-time play, Mulan; of course you were Mulan and Danny was Shang.
When Westchester kids did clichés, they did them damn well.
Your conversation ends shortly after that, considering you hastily excused yourself with the excuse of your mother shouting your name from downstairs in a flustered manner.
The redhead was scaling your brain, tracing familiar patterns and evoked trances. He was on your mind and from the looks of it, he didn't want to leave.
"I don't even know his name," you painfully groaned into your purple pillow.
-:-
School roamed around and teetered in and wobbled along like spring shifts into summer and summer collapses into fall—who jumps winter from behind.
Danny Robbins never failed to break his promises. He took you out on a splendid picnic and presented you with another gift; another charm to add to your ever-so-present and seemingly sentimental charm bracelet your father bought for your thirteenth birthday. You wear that charm bracelet every day and the presence of it didn't fail to slip past Danny's watchful blueblueblueblueeyes.
You simply pecked his awaiting lips with a grin stretching so far along your glossy lips that it hurt your cheeks to smile so widely; pinching and gnawing at you.
The redhead was still haunting your mind. And Danny Robbins couldn't save you from this one.
-:-
"There you are, Yellow dress," he said to you one day from behind. You were standing in the vacant hallway, toying with your silver dial on the stubborn lock, with frustration bubbling around your head.
Your smile reaches your hairline and it doesn't hurt a bit.
"You found me," you stated.
"I also found your shoe," he hands you a familiar white shoe and you know your life just reached beyond the point of cliché; this was a fucking ballad.
"Thanks," you sheepishly claimed the shoe back with heated cheeks and a bite of your bottom lip.
"Since I'm your hero," he began, "do I get the right to know your name?"
"Massie," you breathed, eyes betraying how clear it was to you that he was driving you wild.
Danny Robbins didn't cross your mind once when this boy stuck his hand out politely and told you his name was Todd Lyons.
"Claire's brother?" Your eyes crinkled in utter confusion.
He nods with spirited young eyes. "I'm a year below you," he filled in with a knowing sincere grin.
"Oh,"
-:-
Todd Lyons. Lyons, Todd. Massie Block. Block, Massie. Todd Block. Block, Todd—
That's exactly it, you realize one late evening night while lying under a blanket of autumn stars with Danny's arms wrapped securely around your waist. You must block Todd from invading your mind.
But relentlessly and futilely, he's racking and slowly taking over your brain and its small rationalities that tagged along with quirky comebacks.
Todd was on your mind as Danny kissed you goodnight, whispering a hushed I love you, Todd's emerald/gem irises were glowing in the front of your mind as Danny hands you a birthday gift from Tiffany's. (That matched Danny's robin shaded eyes.)
He's everywhere while Danny Robbins can't seem to stumble upon any cleared seats for your head.
Danny doesn't cross your mind once while Todd hugs you goodnight from your vice-like visit, Danny doesn't even stumble into your head as Todd hands you the most beautiful picture you've ever laid eyes on—a painted perfect picture of wild daisies. You had asked him if he painted it and he nodded with heated cheeks, fleetingly grinning with those mysterious orbs. You had thanked him and kissed his cheek and Danny didn't even crumple into your mind when Todd moved his face slightly to the left and your lips landed solidly and firmly on his slightly-chapped ones.
You close your eyes and pretend it's all a mistake and kiss him hard.
Danny Robbins: boy wonder, can't make your heart race and beat faster than any race horse competing in Saratoga.
-:-
The guilt overrode you but balancing Danny's infatuated love-gawks, Todd's soft voice singing in your ear as you two lay on the couch, the patient kisses Danny surrenders, the hot messy kisses that Todd embeds in your flaming skin, the kind sincere grin of Danny's (perfect) smile, the lopsided crooked (not perfect) smile, all of it was becoming overwhelming but did you stop? (No.)
Two kinds of love; the love for a fairy tale that you've dreamt about since you were old enough to dream while your daddy tucked you under warm blankets and whispered to you the tale of a true fairy-tale love. Then there was the kind of love that grabs you by the heart and brings you closer with panted labored breathing, shy/hard/impatient/real kisses, the kind of love that made you feel risqué. The kind of love that you would read right out of the books of Nicholas Sparks' typed words on a blatant piece of paper. The love that was not perfect.
But now you've got both.
A lover and a star-crossed lover.
Romeo's got nothing on Danny Robbins.
Daniel J. Robbins has got nothing on Todd M. Lyons.
your guilty pleasure, why of course.
-:-
Fin.
please don't alert. It is a one-shot.
Review please.
-another moment gone-