hello there, readers.
AND YOU, SYDNEY, YES I SEE YOU!
here is your ultra-ultra-ultra late (yeah, two months...) birthday prezzie :) so sorry i couldn't post it up before- finals are made of suck.
and these were your snazzalicious prompts:
lollipops! [ preferably green apple jollyrancher ones ] ; mentioning of ronweasley/rupertgrint or the awesomeness that is the pairing RonHermione ; headband with a bow on it ; a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. ;] ; faded, old converse ; some fluff.
i kinda failed with the fluff... but we'll just wait and see.
oh. and consider it disclaimed. KELSEY RYAN IS PROPERTY OF SOPHIE beeteedubs.
Claire Lyons wore yellow on Mondays.
You are sitting at a table with Derrick Harrington, who just five minutes before had approached you with a wild grin and dubbed you his "best friend". Yanking you away from behind your mother's legs, he practically dragged you into the classroom, grabbed two seats near the back of the classroom and began chatting endlessly about some car game he played yesterday and the "sick nasty" lunch Mini- his housemaid, who apparently made the best cookies on the planet- made for him.
You admit, Derrick Harrington is a bit... overwhelming.
He's loud and fidgety and already a lady's man at the tender age of five. His hand, sticky from the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he ate, already had an iron grip on a giggly Dylan Marvil, whom he claimed was his girlfriend.
A new best friend and girlfriend on the first day of kindergarten. Derrick Harrington didn't waste anytime at all.
"Children!"
Everyone falls silent as Ms. Adele enters the room again, a slightly stressed look on her face.
"We have one more new student today. Please, everyone play nice!"
A girl shuffles into the room.
She's tiny- shorter than anyone else in the classroom- with tangled gold curls that fall to her waist held back with a white silk headband with a bow. She's wearing a vibrant, buttercup-yellow dress that brushes her knees and shiny white Mary Janes. When she glances up fearfully, your brown eyes lock with huge, Disney Princess-like eyes in startling blue. You smile hesitantly and she shyly smiles back uncertainly, revealing dimples on either side of her mouth.
Derrick immediately lets go of Dylan's hand and grins wickedly at the new girl. You can practically hear the thoughts whirring in his head for his newest conquest.
But, unlike everyone else, she's not looking at Derrick Harrington and she's still smiling at you and only you.
Maybe kindergarten wouldn't be so bad after all.
Claire Lyons wore red on Tuesdays.
It's Valentine's Day, so her traditional red (or maroon or mauve or mahogany) that she usually wears is lost in the sea of pink and white that is your fourth grade classroom. She walks around the classroom, attached by the hip to that weird girl with the black and neon blue "Panic! at the Disco" shirt (figures she'd ignore the unspoken rules of St. Valentine), Layne Abeley, giggling as Layne takes her green apple-flavored jolly rancher lollipop from her mouth and sticks it in Kemp Hurley's bushy afro with a satisfied smirk.
Licking your lips, you shyly shuffle up behind her and tap her shoulder.
"Claire?" you squeak, your voice coming out sounding like a chipmunk. Layne snorts with amusement while Claire smacks her arm playfully and fights the smile growing across her face.
"Yeah Josh?"
"Happyvalentinesday," you mumble incoherently and shove the box of candy you wrapped carefully in shiny red and pink foil and decorated with conversation heart stickers into her hands and look down, your heart practically thumping out of your chest. She grins, revealing a set of red braces-covered teeth, and pulls you into a thank-you hug. You haven't yet hit your growth spurt (something that Derrick never shuts up about), but she's still the shortest girl in the class and you seem to mold together when you hug.
"Thanks, Joshie!" she whispers in your ear and you turn the same shade of fire-engine red that is hanging in the form of cards and stickers and confetti all over the room. Awkwardly, her lips crash against your cheek and she pulls away, blushing slightly. There's a moment of silence between you two, but then Derrick arrives and pulls Claire into a giant bear hug before handing her his present- an enormous stuffed polar bear holding a large box of candy (bigger than yours, anyway) with the words "Will you be my Valentine?" printed in bold letters across the cover.
She's obviously flattered by his effort. Her eyes leave you and are stuck on him instead, her smile growing wider and her motions becoming more and more animated as she thanks him and kisses his cheek just like she did for you.
You feel eyes on you and Layne Abeley's frown is sympathetic.
Claire Lyons wore white on Wednesdays.
"Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday dear Josh... Happy Birthday to you!"
Plovert lets out a huge belch and everyone either laughs or groans. You choose to roll your eyes and watch as Kristen Gregory shoves him toward the buffet table, where he stumbles and trips on the overly long tablecloth. Half the pizza and soda falls into a heap on his dishwater blonde head but he merely shrugs and begins picking the pepperoni from his mop of hair and popping them into your mouth. Allie-Rose - the self-proclaimed queen of the sixth grade- lets a disgusted "Guh-ross" before flipping her honey-colored tresses over her shoulder and returns to texting Cam Fisher. Your mocha-colored eyes scan the crowd of people around the table. You see Derrick- who's grinning and giving Vader a noogie; Massie- the shy girl who transferred to OCD just last month trying to catch your eye; Layne- who's chatting on her neon green LG chocolate; everyone except her.
You pose for goofy pictures with Derrick and Kemp and Dylan and Alicia but inside, you feel disappointed. She promised she would come...
The hours pass.
Most of the guests have left, and you're left cleaning up the mess made by Chris while everyone else has a Mario Kart battle on the Wii. Sighing, you deposit the huge bag of trash into the bin and start wiping the counter. Rice Krispies wrappers, half-eaten blueberry Poptarts, drops of melted chocolate ice cream, dollops of whipped cream- all into the trash. This was your goddamn party! Why the hell are you the one cleaning up?
"Hey... sorry I'm late." a breathy voice says behind you and you turn slowly.
She bites her glossy bottom lip and tugs at the hem of her white tulle tutu twinkling from the excess glitter covering every inch of the cloth. Her white satin ballet slippers lace up to her calves and the white, pearl-studded corset-style bodice hugs her lithe torso, with silver ribbons crisscrossing across the front and back. Her stage makeup- silver dusted eyeshadow, clear gloss, and thick kohl- shines unnaturally under the glow of the kitchen lights.
You stand there, staring.
She pulls a small vanilla cupcake from behind her with a pink candle in the middle, splattered with rainbow-colored sprinkles.
"Happy Birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Joshie! Happy birthday to you!"
She finishes with a nervous chuckle and her expression turns worried when she sees you're still silent.
"I'm so sorry, Josh! Rehearsals ran ridiculously overtime, and since I'm Odette- you know, the Swan Queen- I couldn't leave early and then I had to wait for Todd to come out from detention- the stupid kid pants-ed Kelsey Ryan, Olivia Ryan's little sister, in homeroom, and there was major traffic near the Christmas Tree Shop because of all the flipping Santa decorations people want right now and I had to stop to pick up this cupcake and-"
"Claire, just shut up and give me a hug." you say bluntly.
She breaks out into a huge grin and runs toward you, still managing to look graceful (all those ballet lessons and rehearsals for Swan Lake weren't for nothing, you know), and leaps into your open arms, giggling.
Your smile is a mile-wide.
Because seeing her was the best birthday present you could ever get.
Claire Lyons wore green on Thursdays.
Your face scrunches up in concentration as you survey her dress, trying to rack your brain for the exact shade of green that she's wearing.
Jade? Emerald? Lime?
"Chartreuse," a voice says in your ear and you whip around, your heart immediately speeding up. But it's only Layne, leaning against the punch table donning a violet and orange zebra print dress and combat boots, sipping bright blue Kool-Aid. An odd ensemble for the seventh grade Spring Fling, but that's just her style.
The knowing smirk on her face worries you.
"What?" you manage to croak out, trying to look confused. "What are you talking about?"
She rolls her eyes in an infuriatingly superior way but she still has that irritating I-know-something-and-you-don't smirk.
"I saw you staring at Claire," she says in a taunting voice, her grin growing wider. She continues in a slightly raised voice before you get the chance to protest. "And you were trying to figure out what color she's wearing. So I'm telling you. Chartreuse."
"I was not looking at Claire!" you whisper heatedly, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. Layne rolls her eyes in a sure-you-weren't kind of way and sighs noisily.
"Well jeez, Josh... if you're absolutely positively sure that you don't like Claire-"
"I don't!"
"Then you shouldn't get, ahem, angry or dare I say... jealous when you turn around?"
You swivel on the spot, your eyes scanning the room and you stop dead in your tracks.
She smiling and laughing, her long blonde hair cascading like a waterfall down her back as she spins and twirls in the center of the dance floor in her completely informal and untied green Converse. But she's smiling and laughing with Derrick, whose arms are wrapped are little too tightly around her slender waist and both their faces are practically glowing. He leans in toward her, close enough to kiss, and whispers something in her ear with a mischievous smile on his face. She throws her head back and lets out a tinkling laugh, her cheeks flushed.
And suddenly, the warm, springy green all over the room has transformed into wild green flames of envy, wreaking havoc mercilessly in your mind and strangling you in a choke hold.
"If you ask me," Layne sidesteps you to grab a stray olive from a platter of cheese and crackers and pops it into her mouth. "They'll be going out by tomorrow."
Claire Lyons wore purple on Fridays.
You aren't sure why you're standing at her door at this ungodly hour, but you ring the doorbell anyway. You hear the light padding of footsteps on the other side and she opens the door, her eyes tired, but smiling.
"Hey Josh. What's up?"
She leans against the door frame, and you try to stop your eyes from running over her white tank that reveals a sliver of her tan stomach and royal purple sweatpants that sit just a bit too low on her narrow hips. One hand clutches a pint of Ben&Jerry's Phish Food while the other lazily rumples her messy blonde hair.
"Can I come in?"
She moves over slightly and you walk into her living room, which, besides the blaring television- playing Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire- is completely dark. She flicks on the light and raises a pale eyebrow, silently questioning your impromptu arrival. The words tumble out of your mouth.
"I asked Massie out. Today. I did the whole picnic thing you told me to do. She loved it. We're going to Junior Prom together."
She grins wildly, putting her ice cream down before throwing her lithe arms around your neck and squealing with excitement. Your arms wrap around her and you close your eyes, breathing in the intoxicating scent of Marc Jacobs Daisy and sour gummy bears.
"You guys make such a perfect couple!" she breaths in your ear and you grimace. Because all you want to be is the Ron to her Hermione, but you're stuck being Harry- the best friend- nothing more.
When you're kissing Massie, you find yourself wishing for golden hair instead of chocolate and bright blue eyes instead of amber and wonder if you're doing something wrong.
Finally you slip and mumble "Claire" instead and she pulls away, hurt streaked across her flawless face.
When Claire asks you why you broke up, you tell her that Danny Robbins liked her more anyway.
Claire Lyons wore blue on Saturdays.
Midnight blue cocktail dress.
Frosted cerulean eyes.
Cornflower blue tears.
She looks like a frickin' damsel in distress, so you're not surprised that both Chris Plovert and Kemp Hurley are sitting on bar stools on either side of her, and Plovert's arm is thrown over her shoulder, and Kemp's hand is on her thigh, eyebrows waggling mischievously. You want nothing more than to storm over there and knock the living daylights out of them, but it seems like Layne's already got it covered- sniggering as she "accidentally" spills red wine on Kemp Hurley's crisp blazer. Kemp swears loudly, begins to yell at her while she simply puts on an innocent facade. He stomps out the bar, with Plovert slowly following behind, shooting wistful glances at the now-alone girl at the bar.
You somehow convince your legs to walk over there and take Kemp's empty seat and order a drink for yourself.
"Hey," you mumble quietly, glancing over at her to see her reaction. She brings the glass of vodka to her pale lips and doesn't look at you.
"Hey," she replies in a dazed voice and her eyes look empty.
"Why'd you break up with Derrick?"
The question is out of your mouth before you can stop it and begin to internally slap yourself for asking such an idiotic question. The glass stops abruptly before it reaches her mouth and she twists slowly on the stool, her eyes, although glassy and slightly red, still manage to show her fiery spirit. You look down at your Nikes and don't meet her eyes, embarrassed and slightly ashamed. Suddenly, you feel nails digging into your arm and look up in alarm. Her face is just centimeters away from your own, and her breath, a mix of gum and alcohol, tickles your face.
"Josh- do you like me?"
"W-well, yeah, of course I do..." you stutter, and the familiar feel of butterflies erupting in the pit of your stomach whenever you get too close to her returns. She looks thoughtful.
"You love me, don't you?"
"If y-you mean it in a, uh, brotherly way... yeah, definitely- un-unless you mean like a romantic way in which case, no. I would never like you like that. Wait no! That came out wrong. I'd definitely like you in that way, but I don't, but- I mean, you're beautiful, and I love you but not like that- but I could if you wanted me to-"
She cuts you off by grabbing the collar of your navy polo and giving you the best kiss of your seventeen-year old life. Your hands make their way to the nape of her neck and respond with so much enthusiasm, you feel slightly breathless.
"If I was still with Derrick," she pulls away for a moment, breathing unevenly, and gazes at you with a blazing intensity. "I wouldn't be able to do this now, would I?"
Her lips are on yours again and you try to help her forget.
The next day, neither of you meet each other's eye when you pass each other in the hallway.
She's back with Derrick a week later.
Josh Hotz could never figure out what color Claire Lyons wore on Sundays.
Sometimes she wore red, sometimes purple, and sometimes even black, though rarely ("Massie says its sophisticated and sexy and all, but personally, I think its just plain boring and a tad depressing. Why do you need black when you can be technicolor?").
"Claire, what's your favorite color?" you ask idly, twisting a blade of grass between your fingers as the two of you lie down on the slightly damp grass. The sun just set and the sky is a magnificent palette of crimson and burnt sienna near the west, while the rest of the sky is deep violet, with a few twinkling stars just appearing.
She stares at the sky without even glancing your way and answers bluntly,
"Brown."
"Brown? You're kidding, right?" you scoff, confused. She turns her face in your direction, the ghost of a smirk on her face.
"Why? You don't believe me?"
"No, it's just..." You pause, unable to think of a good reason. "Why brown?" you ask finally. She turns her gaze back at the sky and her familiar easy-going smile graces her face.
"Because brown's... a warm color. Comforting. Like hot chocolate on a cold winter day. It's easy to get distracted by colors like pink and green, which are so bright and eye-catching. But brown's beautiful in it's own way... and that's why I love it."
There's a brief silence, and the only sounds are the people raging at the house party going on behind you.
"And..." she turns so she's leaning on her elbow, and her eyes are twinkling. She leans in close enough so her lips are right beside your ear. The faint smell of strawberry and kiwi-scented chapstick lingers near your nose. "It's the color of your eyes."
The back of your neck grows hot and you thank Beckham that its dark out so she can't see your usually tanned skin grow red with embarrassment. She could always make you blush. Her soft lips brush your cheeks in a quick kiss and she's up and gone before you know it.
You lie in that position for a while longer, staring at the sky and reminding yourself over and over that you have Kori. Kori, who obsesses over Channing Tatum and thinks that Abercrombie and Fitch is god's gift to man. Your girlfriend.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you swear to forget everything about Claire Lyons and memorize what color Kori Geldman wears everyday.
You forget.
Wow. That sucked. Like, worse than sparkly Edward Cullen -shudder- (NO OFFENSE, EDWARD LOVERS- JACOB FOR LIFE, FOO.)
But I'm a review parasite. REVIEW OR I WILL EAT YEW.
heh. that rhymed.