To okaie, who inspired me to consider Phil and Keely's future
Disclaimer: I haven't found Pickford on a California map yet, despite my best effort. Perhaps if I owned Phil of the Future I'd know exactly where H.G.Wells Jr./Sr. High School is, but since I don't, I, uh, don't.
More Serious
Ch. 1 "Unpacking the Essentials"
Wet. Wet and warm, and muscular. For the last twenty minutes he had remained playfully in the entrance of my partially opened lips. In my new dorm room, my Pickfordite boyfriend had been sharing the surface of my freshly made bed. Our shoes were off. The door was closed. My roommate was out for the evening. Every time Phil's fingers ran along my blouse's bottom hem, I was sure that he was about to make his move to remove my garments, but he didn't. What was he waiting for?
No parents, no Pim, not even the chance of anyone walking in on us; still, he just played at my doorstep, his hands occasionally caressing my arms just as his lips played at mine own. The last few months before coming here, Phil and I had become, well ... more, much, much more ... serious. We still lit up as always when in sight of our significant other, but lately we had been experiencing powerful urges. Physical? Oh, yeah! But there was also the urge to share more; Phil wanted to know everything about me. He wasn't satisfied with just seeing me decked out to the nines, he wanted to watch me getting ready for our dates, to catch me first thing in the morning before I had a chance to brush the sleep from her eyes, let alone run a brush through my hair, even sweaty and gross after helping Mom organize and transport some donations. Phil shared, too, about things that he was terrified of as a kid (no, Pim wasn't one of them), playing in the holographic sandbox, and imagining what our first kiss would be like.
I glanced up at the kitty-cat-clock already on the wall, its pendulum tail swaying back and forth. Twenty-one minutes and he still hadn't, you know. I peered passed Phil to the desk-closet divider down the center of the room, designating the boundary between Keelyland and Erinland. Erin, my roommate. Honestly, I really wanted Phil for a roommate, but then, who wouldn't? That would have been my dream, just like sharing a little apartment. Initial impression-wise, Erin was okay. Her side of the room was still a work in progress, too, with most of Erin's belongings still in cardboard boxes. Erin had some friends from her high school also on campus and they had hung around for a few hours, grinding the unpacking to a halt. I had been included in the chat and had been asked about the pictures already attached to Keelyland's cabinet doors.
I introduced my mother in a rare photo op, my uncle the clown, my best girl Via, a Saint Bernard called Maximillian, and a black and white of Edward R. Murrow. Surprisingly, no one asked about Max or the fellow in circus make-up; I had to explain Edward. I easily summed him up, this Peabody award winning journalist, in one word: integrity. He had worked through difficult times: Germany's bombing of London, nearly single-handedly destroying McCarthyism, corruption and injustice in the United States, always respected for being willing to put his reputation on the line for what he believed was true and right. Erin regretted already pinning up her Jonas Brothers poster. Two more pictures begged explanation. There was the crooked Christmas tree photo with the Diffys. Pim was smiling for once, Barbara holding a sprig of mistletoe up in the air, Lloyd was trying to both smile and give photography directions through his teeth to Curtis, hence the slant of the photo. Phil and I were in the center of the composition, arms around our waists. The final pictures, the best for last, were highlighted by a silver-framed picture standing on the desk beside my printer.
Just about my most treasured possession, it's from our second official date, a night at a carnival. Preserved for eternity, there we are with goofy smiles and wide-eyed looks poking out from behind the carnival cut-out with twenty's (1920s, not 2120s!) bathing suits. Tuck between the frame's shiny edge and the glass is an inch-and-a-half wide strip of paper featuring our second attempt of having our pictures taken inside the automated photo booth; Phil has the first. Each treats the viewer to one shot of us not being ready, a shot of us in mid-laugh, and two that leave no question as to our being together.
I didn't have to explain the photo's of us; these ARE college students, after all. Still, when their eyes spotted my copy Stephenie Meyer's latest Twilight, I thought that I'd have to explain my interest in my other Edward, but no, they shared my interest and understood. The rest of my side was still pretty utilitarian: a year-at-a-glance calendar still without midterms and finals circled on it, my class schedule, a map of the campus with my class buildings marked in yellow highlighter, a collection of flyers from all-night restaurants, laptop, my lucky mug, pen cup, flower vase, stapler, multicolored Post-Its, desktop fan, candy dish, jar of walnuts, bottle of vitamin C, cell phone charger, ... yep, just the essentials.
Essentials. Phil and I are still kissing. No, I'm not complaining; it's not that. It's just that I'm in college now and it feels like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Instead, the Kitty Clock just keeps swinging away, making me more anxious about when Phil's other shoe will drop. Tick-tock, tick-tock, how that clock mocks, mocks, mocks ...
√v√V√v√V√v√V√v√V√v√V√v√V√
A/N: Caught the iCarly episode "Might Switch Schools" on Saturday with their PotF guest. Lise Simms guest stared playing of Mrs. Pilaf, Head Master of Briarwood. What happens to a PotF star after she's done peddling her infomercial? Lise starts to spend the episode by asking about Spencer's buttocks and later she is groped on screen by a dozen kids who trap her on an oversized yellow beanbag and tear through her clothes, leaving her business threads in shreds. See, Ashley?! That's what city life is like! Now in a nice friendly town like Pickford that never would have befallen Mrs. Diffy. Lloyd, you say? Sure, in a freakin' second, but not Barbara!