This is me writing because I have to. I don't know what to do anymore and I don't know how to do it. So I'm doing this. I'm going to keep doing vignettes until I stop. First, Eli.
1: Only The Good Die Young
I'm really into Clare. Not the way I'm really into strawberry shortcake—fucking delicious, by the way-but the way I'm really into watching Meg White play the drums: fucking mindblowingly change-your-life hot. That said, Clare isn't hot. She's pretty, certainly, and I like how when she smiles, it's all sweet and slow and it hits her eyes first before her lips even move. I like the way her hair kind of tornados everywhere—wild, yet still somehow on the straight and narrow, knowing where it should go, just like the rest of her. She's cute, yeah, but for Clare, a cardigan isn't an accessory, it's a way of life, and I don't think she'd know Meg White from Lady Gaga unless one of the two of them started pumping out anthems to Jesus. Not my typical girl.
But something about Clare drives me crazy. Hell, I think I'm going insane, because lately, everything about Clare drives me crazy.
"You are so gone." Adam likes to point out the obvious. I haven't stopped staring at Clare since she announced her plan to ditch us for yearbook and turned heel back down the hallway. She's wearing one of those pretty little church-girl dresses that stops a few inches shorter than complete modesty, but hangs just long enough to make a guy think.
"I am so fucking gone." I agree, catching Adam in a headlock. "Let's grab lunch."
Clare shows up as I'm halfway through a chocolate pudding cup. Almost too sweet. She's got her arms full of schoolwork and a face flush of the satisfaction of work well organized. Oh, but I were a yearbook.
"Pudding cup, Eli?" When she smirks at me, it's a little shy, like that lopsided smile's just a little too dirty for Saint Clare. It just makes it worse, but I've got my game face on.
"It's good for me." I tap the label ("Now with a full serving of dairy!") on the peeled-back lid with my pinky. "I'm a growing boy." I've got a really great game face. I know she's bought it because instead of fleeing to the nearest church to pray for my perverted little soul, she dips her finger around the edge of my pudding cup and traces the rim, scooping some pudding and indulging herself. She still manages to look shy sucking pudding off her finger.
Be-still my beating black heart.
Adam mouths 'gone' from across the table at me, but I don't bother to respond. We both know I'll be bringing pudding to school every day for the foreseeable future.
"You guys are going to grow out instead of up if you keep eating like that...a sandwich and some fruit too mainstream for you?" Clare scours through the feast that Adam and I have built between us on the table.
"If you're looking for a PB&J with the crusts cut off, you need to get yourself a new pair of guys, Clare. This is man food." Adam jabs a corn chip at Clare and she just smiles and rolls her eyes.
"Enjoy your metabolism while it lasts, I guess."
She sits down next to me. I like the way she sits, all snug and neat. It's like a science. First, she shakes out her dress a little. Then she smoothes it down, so when she sits down, it won't wrinkle. I never knew I'd find tidy so attractive. She reaches for the pudding cup again. Clare has a serious sweet tooth. I'm more than happy to indulge, but I wouldn't be me if I dropped to my knees and fed her like Cleopatra. Nope, not my style.
No matter how much I want to.
I slide the cup away from her, without looking. I don't have to be looking at her to recognize the slight intake of breath as shock-turned-pout. I want to look, but I've committed, and I'm damn stubborn when I commit to something. I wait another beat before glancing over.
"Something wrong, Clare?" Her mouth opens and closes a bit like a fish, then she shuts it firmly. "Don't be shy."
"Nothing." She mutters, shaking her head a little. Her hand flutters before settling in her lap. She wants to say something, but she can't. Clare Edwards, I can read you like a Fortnight novel.
Adam strikes up a conversation on the merits—or lack thereof—of having Aquaman in the Justice League. I think he really wants to agree with me that ocean based superheroes are useless, but he's got that old-school loyalty going on. Gotta respect that, but he's fucking blind. In between sea animal calls and hand-hooks, I slide the pudding cup over to Clare, catching her eyes briefly out of the corner of mine. I'm rewarded with one of those slow smiles that start from the eyes. Her cherry-red lips quirk up at the edges as I wordlessly pass her my spoon. She digs in and swirls at the pudding for a moment, and her tongue darts out to moisten her lips. Even though her eyelids are lowered, and she looks like she's focusing on the pudding, I can tell she's still watching me.
Bless me Clare, for I am about to sin.
I gotta learn to multitask, because Adam clears his throat and jerks us both out of our moment. I hadn't noticed how close my head was to hers, or how shallow her breathing was.
"Guys, really? I'm eating here. Do you want me to blow chunks?"
Clare flushes, clamming up with a mouthful of pudding and I just shrug and straighten up.
"If you have to, aim for Owen, alright?" An elbow jabs my ribs. Moment broken, I guess. Damn it. Me and my fucking mouth.
Adam leaves for football practice after lunch. Good on him, and good for me. I could write an essay full of better uses of my time than chasing dead pig flesh with a bunch of guys in skin-tight pants. For example, pinning Clare up against the lockers with my mouth is a fantastic use of my time. Even better is listening to those throaty little sighs when she wraps her arms around my neck and gets exactly what she wants but can't bring herself to ask for. I'm more than willing to oblige and play the devil. What can I say? It suits me.
Kissing Clare is a little like saying a prayer. Appropriate, I guess. She's a quiet kisser, and when you're both deep into it, she makes you quiet too. It's all whispers and murmurs and sighs between our lips and whispery light in between when we dive deep. I feel like saying a few Hail Marys afterward, and I'm pretty fucking far from religious.
I start to press forward, to chase my lucid dream, when she pulls away. Not so much in physical space, but I can feel her gather herself back in and get all tidy again. I take a step back to watch her brain kick back into gear, and I know that we're done. She touches her fingertips to her lip, and when someone less observant might think she's stuck on me and my terrifically talented tongue, I can see that she's worrying her promise ring with her thumb, spinning it around her finger like a safety blanket.
I'm a gentleman. I know how to treat a lady, and I'd never push.
But goddamn, sometimes I hate that little gold cockblock.
I don't hate it because of what it stands for. I think it's cool that she's willing to stand up for what she believes in. Maybe it's hard out there for a pimp, but I bet it's harder for a high school virgin. What I hate is how it restrains her. The mere thought of it makes her pull back—pull in. Not just from sex, but from life. She's stunning when she just lets go—damn the consequences.
But in the meantime, I'll enjoy her as she is. I'm trying to get better at letting things go myself. Living in the moment, being glad for what I've got.
So, Clare, if you're the preacher's daughter, I'll play the rebel out-of-towner with the devil-may-care attitude, and we'll be perfect as we are.
