author's note: This fanfiction is for just a little CRAZIEE as part of the Secret Santa Fic Exchange, Take 2: hope you enjoy it, girlie! I tried to stick to your prompts, but, lemme tell you, they were hard!
prompts used:
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fast cars,
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{the clique}
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Her toes are bare, stark white, against the black dashboard and it occurs to me that I should demand she remove them. I can't bring myself to. Thoughts, questions really, are ringing through my head. She's quite the rare bird. And by 'rare bird,' I mean freak. We're complete opposites, her and I. She's the epitome of carefree: still part of the inner circle, but takes all Alicia's silly rules and regulations in stride. Me? I'm a geek. Plain and simple. Just because we live in the 'most exclusive' (eye roll here) county in New York, doesn't mean we all need to act like rich SOBs.
You might me wondering how I got here. Truth is, I am, too. Massie Block and Derrick Harrington, we just don't mix. Even from the first day of school, when I strolled into daycare with an eager expression on my face and my glasses pushed too far up my nose, I was a loser. And Massie? Well, she was just born popular. In her blood, her genetics. No one was really sure why she was immediately embraced into the A-List, but most people guessed it had something to do with her looks. Bright amber eyes, easy smile, delicate features, dark pixie cut.
She's playing with the radio, zooming between some Top 40 station and one playing nonstop Frank Sinatra. I momentarily stop staring at the snowy road ahead to look at her pale fingers twisting the knob back and forth, back and forth.
"I love Frankie." She turns her laser-beam smile onto me, wiggling her toes to the tune of 'I Get A Kick Out Of You.'
"Great." Back to the road. I flick on the turning signal and switch lanes, not half as smoothly as my rigid family driver, Michel, taught me. Does Massie think I drive poorly? Does she care? It's not like we're friends or anything. Just neighbours. I'm always one of the first people to be invited to the weekly Block get-togethers. Of course, it's not really 'I.' It's my parents, Cheryl and Spencer, and my sisters, Sabrina, who's twelve and just about as pretentious as they come (Get this: she calls her group of friends the 'Pretty Committee') and Alison, who's fourteen and big into sports.
Basically, she's the son my father never had.
Massie's the same age as Alison, I'm two years older than both of them. It's weird, you know? Hanging out with my little sister's best friend. Just because I live next door to the Blocks, doesn't mean I'm close with them. Frankly, the Blocks are a bit of an enigma, even to the families that consider themselves 'friends,' like the Ploverts and the Riveras. Both Kendra and William Block work in the city, doing God knows what, and are said to have an open marriage. Massie, their only daughter, the love of their life, the driving force keeping them together? Yeah, she was adopted.
"Don't you like him?" she asked, interrupting my train of thought again. Gee, thanks.
"He's okay, I guess." I shrug, trying to keep the smooth little Prius I got for my sixteenth on the road.
Her eyes snap open and she rustles in her seat. "Just 'okay'?" she repeats, mouth hanging open. I can't help but notice that she has the perfect pink mouth of a little girl. Her teeth are straight and white, though it's no secret that they're veneers courtesy of Dr. Hurley. She has on some glittering lipstick. Dark pink.
"I dunno, I'm not really into that stuff." Again, I shrug.
She plays with the zipper of her Octavian school hoodie, all seriousness. "If you don't like Frank, than what do you like?"
I can't help it; I shrug. "Coldplay, Dashboard Confessional, stuff like that."
Her lips twist into a smaller 'O' shape. Massie turns back in her seat, sliding her legs back onto the dashboard. Her feet pound out some sort of a beat - it's slowly driving me insane.
I guess I should explain how I got here in the first place. And, no, I don't mean 'here' as in planet earth, because the answer is the birds and the bees and I really don't need to be thinking about that when I'm sitting beside my little sister's best friend. By 'here,' I mean my new Prius, with Massie Block's feet upon the dash.
It all started with Massie's messed-up adoptive parental situation. Kendra and William were staying in their chic brownstone in the city for Christmas. It was one of the only times they'd bothered to bring their daughter along (she claimed she went with them because of the 'fabulous shopping,' but everyone knew it was because she was lonely), except they hadn't told her they didn't plan on returning to Westchester until after New Year's, at least. This, of course, was no good for Princess Massie. She wanted to spend Christmas with her friends and family, in the county, like it was tradition.
Her parents' responses was less than cooperative.
When my mom and dad found out, they found an easy solution. Let's get our anti-social son to pick her up! He has a new car! He can drive!
My response? Whoop-de-doo.
So here I am, Massie Block twisting her hair into braids beside me, driving home to Westchester. On Christmas Eve. God, my life is perfect, no? No. Just no.
"Do you have a middle name?" This is her way. Random, pointless questions. Out of the blue. Probing into everyone's personal life. And yet, everyone always answered her. I found my dark eyes flickering to her face. Her arms wrapped around her long legs. I want to tell her to sit properly, but she isn't wearing shoes so she won't scuff the seat or anything. I was bizarrely compelled to answer her.
"Yeah." After a beat, I elaborate, "Adam."
"Means 'The Earth.'" And she has on this content little smile. Even though she's not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, she takes a couple pre-AP classes (English Lit, Trig and French, I think) and supposedly has some near-perfect memory. Story goes, a series of complex neurological tests were run on her, as a child, at the Block's expense. She's some kind of genius, apparently.
"We're never gonna make it in time," I note, jutting my chin towards the non-moving cars surrounding us.
"Oh, well." She smiles, too brightly for her to be one hundred percent sane.
"'Oh, well?'"
Massie nods her head, flipping back a thin braid over her shoulder. "I just begged to come home because I couldn't stand another minute of their fighting." Her eyes look dull, as she adds, "I wish they would get a divorce already."
"Why?" I almost burst. Who wants their parents to get a divorce?
"They're so bitter. All the time." Her smile is sad and distant, now. "I would rather them be apart and happy then together and depressed."
With a smooth cluck of her tongue, she changes the course of the conversation easily. "Let's pull in here." She motions with her hand towards a low-rent dive. A neon sign flickers, 'OPEN.'
I change lanes again and glide on some dangerous black ice into the diner known as 'Fisher and Sons.' The place is kind of crappy; not exactly the next hotspot for Westchester's under-twenty elite, but Massie seems to love it. She's smiling brightly and she takes my hand, barely letting me lock up the car. She pulls me behind her - oh, no. Is she...skipping?
Massie has a little difficulty opening the glass door (push, not pull, I explained) but she's delighted by the quaintness of the tinkling of bells that sound, the red-and-white checkered tablecloth, and the huge Christmas tree nestled in the corner of the place. It's all strung with lights and popcorn. The trees that we're used to are all decorated in one colour (ours' is gold, hers' is silver) and come with all the ornaments already on.
"For two?" a less-than-cheery girl asks. Her white-blond hair is streaked with black and a pair of fuchsia glasses sit on the tip of her button nose. Her name tag reads CLAIRE. She looks to be older than us, but not by much. She's a petite little thing - shorter than Massie, who's five-foot-five - and even I could probably crush her with my pinkie finger.
"Yes, please." Massie smiles. 'Claire' merely nods, beckoning over her shoulder for us to follow. When we pass a bowl of candy, Massie discreetly selects a poppy-red mint. I wonder if she notices that 'Claire' is sucking on a lemon-yellow lollipop.
"Here you go," 'Claire' deadpans, placing two laminated menus on the small table. It's a table for two. How romantic. Massie pulls out a chair first and then I do, too. There are already glasses of ice water waiting patiently for someone to slurp them up, but she instead picks off the paper wrapping of a straw.
Without even glancing at the menu, Massie clasps her hands, sighs, and looks ready-and-waiting to order. Twenty bucks says she'll have an iceberg salad with the lettuce on the side.
We were entirely alone. Save for angsty 'Claire,' Fisher and Sons was empty. I wonder why they would even bother keeping the place open - Who, besides us trust-fund kids on the way back from the city, would pop in for a bite on Christmas Eve? Massie drops an unfolded napkin into her lap. She carefully spreads it around, so it completely covers her jeans. I took a sip of the water. The icy coolness poured through my throat. Cold.
"Are you guys ready?" 'Claire' inquires. She flips open her little notepad, pen poised to write.
"Yep!" Massie taps her menu with her short fingernails. "I'll have a double cheeseburger with fries, pretty please. Oh! And Pepsi."
That's twenty bucks down the hole.
"Uh. I'll have the same, I guess."
'Claire' nods tightly. She slides the menus off the table, tucking them under her arm. Massie watches the elder blond woman stomp off. This is not how I imagined I'd be spending the evening before Christmas. It was tradition for all five of us Harringtons to be at home, nestled on one couch. We'd have our housekeeper, Mini, take a family photo. Cheryl and Spencer, my mom and dad, would let me, Brina, and Ali open one gift each. Sabrina always opened the biggest one; Alison always opened the smallest one; and I always plucked an envelope from where it was hanging on a tree branch and feigned surprise when it turned out to be a gift card for Borders or Radioshack.
"So." Massie's cheeks puff out like a squirrel's. "Merry Christmas, Derrick."
I sigh. "Same to you."
The silence continues for a little over ten minutes. Then, 'Claire' returns with our identical meals. She places Massie's down first, then mine. Trailing behind our waitress is a fair-skinned guy with thick, dark, wavy hair and different-coloured eyes. He wore a bright, toothy grin. He didn't have on a uniform or a name tag, like 'Claire.' Rather, he was wearing a pair of faded denims and a t-shirt advertising Fisher and Sons Drug Store.
His cheeks are puffed out like Massie's - What's with everyone and the candy?
"Claire Bear," sighs the dark-haired guy, jamming his hands into his pockets. "All this candy is giving me a sugar high."
His 'Claire Bear' sniffs the air. Haughtily, she retorts, "Well, then, don't eat it."
"Aw, don't be like that." He shuffles closer to her, placing his large hand on her frail shoulder. "You know I love your candy, but it's getting to be a little excessive."
'Claire' whips her head around. Her blond ponytail, streaked with black, hits him square in the nose. "No one's forcing you, Cam."
'Cam' catches 'Claire' by the chin. He tilts her chin up, to meet his intense gaze. (Holy crap, I feel like I'm in some kind of Harlequin paperback.) Massie and I exchange a quick, questioning look.
"You know I'd do anything for my wife." 'Cam' grins again, brushing her cheek with his thumb.
'Claire' blushes. She looks down and it seems like she just notices Massie and I are still here. "Oh, my," she mutters, wandering away. The man who's apparently her husband trails behind her.
"We're not going to be back in time," I comment, jutting my chin out towards the windows. The sunflower-printed curtains - which don't fit the season at all - are pulled open, showing off the snowy landscape. Traffic is at a standstill.
Massie winks. "Oh well." After swallowing another massive bite of her cheeseburger, she elaborates, "This is ten times more fun then whatever we'll be doing in Westchester."
The repition of our early conversation, in my Prius, is not lost on me.
Time seems to stop moving. Massie puts her burger down and lifts her legs up, onto an empty chair. A secret smile is playing on her lips. When I silently question what she's doing, she looks up at the ceiling. I do, too.
Oh, lord. How much more cliche could this get?
Mistletoe.
Massie slips into the chair beside me and presses her reflectively-glossy lips to mine before I have a chance to protest. I'm not going into detail because seriously my sister's best friend! But, you know... it wasn't bad... I can tell I'm blushing by the way she's smiling and laughing.
"EW! Nasty!"
Our heads whip around at the same time. We're face-to-face with a tiny little blond girl. Her hair is sectioned off into pigtails, tied with red and green bows. Her hands are on her hips. She's wearing a jumper-dress and a green sweater underneath, all Christmas-spirit-y. She has pale green eyes. Her nose is the same as Claire's; her chin is like Cam's. I guess she's their kid.
Nothing says 'Merry Christmas' like kissing under mistletoe in a lame diner off some highway.