Think of this as Spencer set to a whole album [All You Can Eat by k.d. lang].
I.
Spencer used to watch them move.
It wasn't because of attraction, not really. It was more about comfort. There was an ease to each one of them-friends or foes alike-as if underneath all that skin was a kind of simplicity that Spencer would never, ever know.
Spencer just wasn't simple.
But she had no idea as to what made her so complicated.
So, she would watch them move. She'd watch the way they would walk down hallways-vaguely innocent and decidedly sinister, painted nails so sharp, lips fixed in a sensual sneer-and Spencer would remember the reflection in her own bathroom mirror every morning.
Sure, there had already been comments on her being "pretty".
"Cute". "Nice". "Sweet". "Such a lovely young lady".
It was like always being five-years old and having her flushed face pinched by wayward aunts-that's how the world saw Spencer Carlin.
She was pretty and still somehow blank. She was blonde and blue-eyed and still somehow ordinary, still somehow not like every other girl in the world.
And Spencer used to watch them move, watched the way they could flirt and then feign indifference. She would take in their mannerisms, the grins and the grimaces that peppered the long school hours, and then mimic them when alone.
What passed for happiness out there, though, just came off like a misplaced surprise on Spencer's face and that expression revealed a whole lot more than intended.
Those girls believed they deserved joy. Those girls believed in themselves.
And Spencer, strangely enough, didn't share that belief for herself.
There, in that damn mirror, Spencer saw less than pretty and more of a mystery. In those eyes were the shadows, in those waves of cornsilk were the longings, and what Spencer couldn't readily reconcile, she would avoid.
Spencer would avoid that wisdom for as long as possible.
And she'd watch them move for far more reasons than acknowledged.
/ / /
II.
God doesn't talk to Spencer anymore. Then again, maybe God never did much talking to begin with-maybe it was Spencer doing all the endless chatting.
Begging for better grades. Begging for toys at Christmas. Begging for sisters instead of brothers and for a puppy and for her mother to allow her first boy/girl party and for someone's gaze to wander her way when she was thirteen...
A whole lot of sweet dreams to come true, that's what Spencer used to talk to God about the most.
She never questioned the existence of God, though. She never doubted the rules and regulations laid down in that fine leather book. She never looked upon the cross and thought it wasn't really a good enough reason for submission, for total supplication and never a glance back.
There are days, though, where Spencer would give almost anything for God to return the favor and say something. All these years of petty and purposeful conversations, spoken in jest and in seriousness, but God stays silent.
And there are days where Spencer needs an answer, needs explanations, needs more than just clouds and scripture.
There are days where Spencer needs an actual reply to cling to.
"Why did we have to leave Ohio?"
"Why are my parents fighting more?"
"What are these feelings inside of me that I just cannot control?"
"Who the hell am I anymore?"
God doesn't talk to Spencer, though.
She thinks that maybe God never will.
/ / /
III.
Spencer likes to daydream in some of her classes, despite the push for bits of knowledge and the pull of academic excellence.
She'll drift away from numbers and equations. She'll lose sight of Austen and Poe.
Most times, it is just her mind that leaves the room. Her face will stay forward and her pen will, miraculously, stay moving on that piece of notebook paper.
However, her brain will shutter away all sensible facts and figures, opting for flights of fancy instead. Out the window and in the trees, running across the quad and bypassing all the highways... and she often ends up at the beach.
It'll be the rolling in of salt-filled waves. It'll be the sensation of a blistering sun on her skin.
It'll be the grains of sand sticking to the bottom of her bare feet.
It'll be the warm breeze cutting through her hair.
Most times, in this alternate universe, Spencer is on her own. A fine stretch of land before her and behind her, with not another living soul to share it with.
Most times, that is how she likes it.
No Glen to fight with. No Clay to fathom. No father to disappoint. No mother to please.
No games to attend and no cheers to learn and no cliques to fit within-or to not fit within.
Most times, Spencer is alone, and she honestly likes it that way.
But this shore is not empty today.
A bright smile attached to an attractive face and an attractive face connected to an equally attractive body seems to materialize beside Spencer. A bright smile that looks so achingly familiar, so damned new that Spencer cannot think to breathe for a moment and her chest hurts with the holding back.
She could be stupid enough to ask the obvious but Spencer is smarter than she lets on.
Spencer knows, deep down, why Ashley Davies has intruded upon her daydream.
That's deep down, though.
And Spencer will keep this to herself once she resurfaces to the real world, with desks and homework and family dinners and emails and getting up at six in the morning.
Spencer will keep this all to herself-at least for the time being.
At least until she decides if this is one daydream that she might want to come true.
/ / /
IV.
Laying in bed, middle of the night, and Spencer cannot sleep.
It's not a nightmare, though. Not in the traditional sense anyway. It's more like trepidation mixing with a flood of lust, which makes things difficult and heightens emotions far beyond what is normal.
Then again-what is normal?
Normal, to some people, is a boy's hand-rough and thick and fumbling-to hold as the movie theater goes dark. Normal, to some people, is walking down the aisle-dressed in white and a tuxedo waiting by the pulpit-and marrying a notion more than a man.
Normal, to some people, is everything that Spencer fears she is not.
She'll not be what her mother hoped for and that's the trepidation. It is knowing that she can never be upfront with her mother. It is knowing that, if the truth wins this race, Spencer will still lose.
She'll not be able to turn Ashley away and that's the lust. It is knowing that she will lie with every word to keep Ashley in her life. It is knowing that, if the want wins this race, Spencer will still burn.
Is this normal?
Is it normal to need someone so much and to know that having them will tear the world apart? Is it normal to not care about what will be sacrificed, as long as what is desired is granted?
Is this normal for anyone at all?
Spencer cannot sleep tonight. Her eyes just won't close. Her hands just won't stay still.
And down the hall is part of the pain.
And down the street is part of the pleasure.
/ / /
V.
She'll save the romance for another day, when interruptions are few and the girl isn't so beautifully messed up, but the love just won't be denied.
Mothers be damned. False friends can disappear. Spencer can take them all on, that's what she believes as the sunlight coasts through the glass panes and lands squarely on Ashley's face-smeared and peaceful and the only face that Spencer wants to see.
Last night, Spencer treaded the fine line of disaster and thought that to fall would be the end.
And, yet, here she is-alive and well.
Here she is-getting all she wants and ready to say it aloud, ready to wrap herself up in this feeling. And Ashley, sleeping away the morning, won't be able to retreat this time.
There won't be a drug strong enough. There won't be a drink potent enough.
There won't be enough pointless girls or clueless boys to drown in.
This time, they have no excuse to stay away from one another.
They've run out of platonic pretenses-hugs and jealousy and willing naivety and innuendo quickly dismissed-and Spencer sighs in relief.
All that running and all that kidding and all that sidestepping? She'll do no more of that.
Still, she'll save the romance for another day. She'll let it wait for a day when Ashley isn't nursing a headache and when Ashley isn't wallowing in mistakes.
She'll save it for a day when it can fully bloom and grow and take root.
But the love, oh that wonderful shot of love that barrels around Spencer's entire body, it just won't be denied anymore.
So, Spencer raises her hand and allows it to glide along a strand of brunette hair, then slip down the length of a smooth jawline.
And Spencer, for a second, knows the meaning of being truly free.
/ / /
VI.
Spencer presses her face into the bed and actually hopes for the strength to push so hard as to take away the air she must have, to prevent any ability to reach oxygen and find her lungs flailing, find her lungs failing...
...And then death.
She's never wanted to die. No one wants to really die, do they? No one wants to admit defeat. No one wants to wave that white flag.
Spencer, though, cannot see her way out.
This battle won't magically fade away like cookies on a plate for Santa Claus or like a tooth under the pillow, this battle won't go down without a fight-and Spencer isn't sure she is up to facing this enemy, this enemy wearing her mother's face.
Her mother, healing the afflicted with one hand and striking her daughter's face with the other hand, is no longer where Spencer can turn in times of need.
It feels like betrayal and Spencer hates that she cries-hates the tears that soak the sleeve of her jacket, hates that she cares so much, hates that things can't be as they always have been.
She presses a bit harder.
Spencer hates the stinging on her cheek, hates the churning of anger in her stomach, hates that everything must change-her family, her home, her whole damn life.
She pushes a bit harder.
Then a bit harder still.
/ / /
VII.
Give you up? I could do that. I could. I could give you what you ask for, even though I know that you truly don't want it, and set you loose from my side.
Give you up? I could do that. Just ask me and I won't question you anymore. I won't make you stay if you need to flee. I won't drop to my knees and beg you to need me.
Give you up? I could. If I wanted to. If I really wanted to.
But I don't want to do that.
Give you up? No, never, not in this lifetime.
I choose to keep you. I choose to have you. I choose you, okay? I choose you above all others, above any naysayers, above those who would curse us and above those who would condemn us.
I could give you up, if you made me do so.
But don't worry, I won't let you do that.
Spencer first registers the sensation of warm air, the way it hits her lips and then trails out along her chin and dissipates somewhere down her neck.
It feels good. It feels exciting. It feels so right.
Kissing used to be this desperate, and yet deeply unsatisfying, thing that Spencer would do back in Ohio. Back in Ohio, she would kiss guys and they would slide a tongue into her mouth and she'd try to imagine how good it should be.
She'd try to imagine how great it was and her imaginings would fall short of expectation.
Somehow, though, Spencer is fairly certain that this kiss won't disappoint.
Somehow, Spencer is pretty sure that this kiss will turn into much more.
When Ashley is finally there, closer than ever before, and they finally touch one another-Spencer is sort of outside of her own body while still in it. She can see her bones being dismantled, one by one, and they soon turn to dust. Spencer can see the current of blood as it pumps and pounds through fevered veins, rushing to points of interest-the heart, the face, the lips, the pulsing and eager center of her body.
It feels like dying. It feels like being born. It feels so very right.
And yet, Spencer somehow knows that this night will be even better than that.
/ / /
::end::