Author's Note: My inagural, pathetic attempt at second person. Meep. You asked for it. It's pretty one-sided, but I did my best!
Disclaimer: Still don't own anything of or relating to The Clique or any brands mentioned.
Winners and Losers
-A Clique OneShot by: Honour Society-
You've never been much of a winner. This is an absolute truth of which you are acutely aware. You, Kristen Gregory, are an almost winner, a second placer, but you are not a winner. That's Massie Block's role.
You quickly press the little blue Pause button on your laptop, where an old season one episode of Bones had been playing, and make as little noise as humanly possible as you listen to the same-old-same-old harsh tones and harsher words of your parents. Key phrases slip into your ear with little meaning: last straw; finished; the end; moving; taking Kristen; lawyer; call you. Your head pounds, adrenaline pumps through your veins, the state known as tachycardia takes hold over your heart. Massie Block probably has no clue what that means. But you do. You are, after all, the smart one.
Even when your mom comes into your room without knocking and gently sets a medium-size L.L. Bean suitcase on the ground — even in her worst moments, she will not deign to throw anything "like a barbarian," as she's stated before — and says only, "Pack."
And so you do. You remember to put in your soccer uniform, your school textbook, the expensive days-of-the-week underwear Alicia Rivera got from Neiman's for your birthday this year, a few hoodies and even your favourite Nike sneakers. It isn't until your mom has put the late-model sedan into reverse and you're pulling out of the apartment complex that you realize you left your baby blanket and the picture frame of your first day in the Pretty Committee. It isn't until you pull into McDonald's and order a salad, as Massie would, and then change your order to fries and a Big Mac, that you realize you don't care.
Except, the next day at school, when your sandy blond hair is still wet because the cockroach motel you're staying at doesn't come with a blow-dryer, that you wish you'd remembered to bring your Pretty Committee-approved clothing. You tentatively raise your hand in math class, but even your awkward movements can't hide the mustard stain on your T-shirt. You hate your parents. You hate what they've done to you.
All through lunch at table eighteen, you remain the butt of all the jokes. Even Claire Lyons, the dorky one, snorts a laugh. You slump lower in your chair and pick at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich your mom packed. When the lunch bell rings, you grab a hall pass and miss half the period as tears flow freely in the graffiti-covered washroom. Your photographic memory snaps a photo. Your eyes trace and re-trace the inner social workings of OCD that line the walls: Alicia is such a slut!; Derrington is so hawt, have he and Mass broken up yet? To which someone has replied with a coy Maybe, maybe not. A word of advice: don't call her Mass. ;)
It's obviously Massie's writing. From the high arches of the M, to the long loop of the Y. Helps that it's written in her favourite Urban Decay purple nail polish, too.
Your hips don't sway, your eyes don't have that empty-yet-soulful look, your hair doesn't fall perfectly around your face. You swallow your spit and take a sidelong glance at the blurry image in the mirror. You don't like what you see. As you retreat from the washroom and amble up the stairs to Geography, you think of all the inside jokes you won't get. No matter what you do, you're never a winner. You, Kristen Gregory, were born to be a loser.
"Where were you, Kris?" The brunette leader hisses at you through clenched white teeth, while keeping her amber eyes focused solely on your Geography teacher.
"Nowhere," you mumble back and hope she doesn't catch the defensiveness in your tone. If she does, she doesn't say. Her purple fuzzy pen twirls hearts and letters and shapes in her notebook. You lean over discreetly and catch something you wish you hadn't.
D.H.
plus
M.B.
A bell rings. You file out of the classroom, books tucked under your arm, head ducked. You can't quite comprehend why those initials and the names they stand for have such an effect on you. Massie and Dylan, the only members of the PC (or, NPC, as it may be) in this class, change their usual slow walks to catch up with you.
"Got somewhere to be?" Dylan says, before letting out a melodious burp. "I've been holding that in since lunch." She says this proudly and you laugh, because it's what Kristen Gregory would do and the brunette rolls her eyes, because that's what Massie Block would do.
"How're things with Dempsey?" You ask, cheeks tinged pink.
She smirks. "Not as good as with Derrick."
Your stomach lurches and you casually say, "Is that so..."
Dylan, tucking a chemically-straightened lock of red hair behind her freckled ear, and purses her reflectively-glossy lips. "Oooooh. Massie and Derrick, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" She doesn't continue the song because Massie has previously stated that she would never have a child because of "what it would do to my thighs, hello!"
"The soccer boys have practice now. We should, ya know," the amber-eyed girl raises her impeccably-arched eyebrows suggestively, "check it out."
You're all for this, of course, but you play it cool. You shrug your shoulders. "Sure."
"Maybe you'll even see Kemp, Kris. That thing with Griffin...ugh, you and Kemp are so perf together! K and K! How cuh-yute is that?"
"Way cute," you reply.
The clacking of Massie and Dylan's heels is driving you crazy, but they seem equally perturbed with your scuffed Sketchers, so you let it go. By the time you arrive at Briarwood, the troupe of soccer players are already running drills. You hate it, but your eyes immediately scan for Derrick's. When you see him, jumping up and down in the net, you stifle a laugh.
Your eyes meet.
His face lights up; his chocolate eyes aglow.
Your heart melts.
"Hey, Block!" he yells, louder than you've ever heard. Her face is curled up into a humble smile. Your face turns to stone. Oh.
Dylan punches Massie lightly on her shoulder, whispering, "Go get 'em, girl," just loud enough for you to hear. The brunette grins before picking up her pace to catch up to Derrick. He picks her up, swings her around, all-couple-y. And when he leans in for a kiss, with her slim, bare legs wrapped around his waist, and she lets him, you've never felt like such a loser.