A/N: Honestly, I'm not entirely satisfied with this story. Why the hell post it then? Well . . . I dunno. I posted on LJ and figured I'd keep up here too. And I could definitely use the constructive criticism.
Disclaimer: HA! is Craig Bartlett's. Not mine.
Umbrella/Red
She came here to think from time to time; to lie staring up at the clouds. Sometimes they were schooners and sailboats - too often they were familiar oblong shapes. Oblong shapes that closely resembled a certain football-headed blonde tossing a Frisbee with his best friend not far from her current position. She would twirl a blade of grass or two around her fingers every so often, contemplating getting up to punch him.
Or kiss him. Whatever took his attention away from the attractive red-head watching from the other side of the park. Ugh.
They were fourteen now. Summer was coming to a quick end, which meant high school - different high schools - for the gang was fast approaching. HE wasn't going to her school; HE was going to Hillwood High with the rest of them while she was being shipped across town to the same exclusive private school Award-Winning Olga Pataki had attended.
Not that it matters, she thought. The closest she had been to him was a few stolen kisses here and there - only one that wasn't actually scripted - and he hadn't even kissed back. Even then, he'd later dismissed the whole confession, offering her the out that she had needed at the time to feel normal around him again. It worked . . . for a while. School had begun again, and she knew that through the awkward taunting and bullying, he knew. Of course he knew. She had told him.
She closed her eyes, tired of the football-shaped clouds burning permanently into her memory. At least the clouds weren't talking to her, she recalled with the ghost of a smile, remembering the lemons that time in fourth grade when she had taken an "anti-love" potion from the gypsy scam shop down the street.
A few scattered rain drops began to fall, yet she remained still on the grass. Kids scrambled for their umbrellas, and she noticed him in the distance sharing his blue one with the red-head out of the corner of her eye. She was suddenly overcome with hurt in remembrance, until the red-head opened her own green gingham umbrella and left. Heh, what a maroon, she thought, staring at him. She could've sworn she heard him sigh before heading home in the other direction.
As if on cue, the mocking football-headed cloud seemed to open up on the park, soaking her instantly to the bone. Shivering, she determined that she should probably go, but something glued her to the ground. Blonde hair stuck everywhere, and she could feel the grass beneath her sticking awkwardly to her legs and arms. Ignoring it, she closed her eyes even tighter and challenged the rain to move her from her place. That's it, she thought. I'm done.
Minutes - hours? - later, she was still so captivated by the rain surrounding her that she didn't even notice him sit down next to her until she felt the rain abruptly stop. Opening an eye, she noticed the red umbrella currently sheltering her from the downpour. She opened both blue eyes to see a pair of dark chocolate ones staring back at her. He smirked in the way only a star-basketball playing, urban legend-telling, smooth-talking aspiring talk show host could, his expression oozing cool. "Sheesh, haven't you enough sense to come out of the rain?"
Rolling her eyes, she retorted, "Who told you that, your Mommy?"
"As a matter of fact --"
"Stuff it."
Sighing - many moons ago he might've snapped back, but after years of hanging around their best friends, he'd learned to stifle once in a while - he leaned back on his hands. Normally he would've blown a gasket about getting his favorite jersey muddy, but something made him want to stay out in the rain with the girl. And it definitely wasn't because the rain had nearly soaked through her shirt, sticking to her . . . blessings.
Making a point to stare at her face, he couldn't stay silent for too long. "So . . ."
"What part of 'stuff it' don't you understand?"
"The 'it,' probably," he retorted and winked. She shot daggers at him through her eyes, and he continued, "Ok, ok. No need to be all nefarious about it." She raised an eyebrow - well, she raised THE eyebrow, she'd not yet developed a tweezing expertise.
"You've been spending way too much time with --" she began, biting her tongue before finishing the sentence. Considering the . . . circumstances regarding a certain mutual friend - a certain Japanese mutual friend - she had generally tried to be a tad nicer to the athletic boy sitting next to her in the soggy grass. The break-up a few months ago hadn't been entirely his fault after all, and besides, she had grown sort of accustomed to his constant presence around the two girls.
---
"It's just not fair! I play better than half of those idiots, and they stick me in crummy left field! Who do they think they are!"
"Um --"
"I mean, I could agree to putting Harold behind the plate, but STINKY!"
"You know --"
"What was Wittenberg thinking! I'm the best catcher on that team!"
"Maybe he just wanted to change the regular rotation slightly or something. It most probably has nothing to do with your or Stinky's athletic ability. Maybe he just wanted to make things . . . fair?"
"Wittenberg never wants FAIR! He wants to WIN! He ALWAYS wants to win! I play one crappy inning . . ."
"Hey girls!" The friends turned to see the mocha-skinned boy hustling toward them. The blonde girl knew this routine: a smile, a wink, and a silent swoon on the part of her best friend, the small Asian girl next to her. To be truthful, she didn't mind as much as she would have in the past; she just wished she had someone - a certain someone - to act like an idiot with.
She smiled (it was more of a smirk, really, but coming from the residing class bully, the couple took what they were given) and continued walking with the two. They would go to the arcade, or perhaps the bowling alley; the couple would hold hands, the third would look off and daydream.
Maybe it was uncomfortable, maybe it was weird, but it was what the three did. Sometimes others would join them, sometimes it was just the three, but neither seemed to mind. The blonde was ever amazed at how different she and the boy were, but still managed to get along, at the very least for the dark-haired girl's sake.
"So what was with Coach putting Stinky in over you? Mm - mm - MM, he's outta his mind!"
Maybe they were more alike than she'd ever realized.
---
Then again . . . "You know, bucko, YOU are sitting right here next to me."
"Yeah, well," he mumbled, stretching out on his back beside her, abandoning the umbrella which was clearly a lost cause at this point. He put his hands behind his head, and glanced in her direction. "You looked lonely, I guess."
"Hmpf," she snorted, turning her head toward him. Stubborn blonde hair stuck to her forehead, but before she could swat it away, he reached and gently tugged the hairs out of the way. For a moment, her cheek tingled where his hand had been, but the feeling disappeared as swiftly as it had come.
Jerking her face toward the sky, she stuttered, "So, uh, how have you b-been? I mean, since . . . er . . . the last time I saw you?" Checking herself, she added, "Because it's pretty pathetic to mope around all day, Hair Boy." She could taste the bile hypocrisy on her tongue, but chose to ignore it.
"I'm not moping!" He semi-shouted, sitting up straight. "I'm not. All you girls are the same, you're just . . . just . . ." By now his thick black hair gathered dripping at the nape of his neck, but he didn't seem to notice. Instead, he frowned and looked toward the park gate. Letting out a frustrated groan, he grumbled, "Just leave me alone."
Sensing a struck nerve, she dropped the subject. "Fine," she muttered, closing her eyes again. Uncomfortable silence passed over the young teenagers, and the rain finally seemed to subside. She sat up and looked at him. "You know," she began. "I haven't seen you around much, since . . . well . . ."
"Yeah." He wouldn't look at her. He turned his attention instead to the Yahoo truck splashing down the street outside the gate.
"It's just . . . it was last summer. You sure have . . . not been around as much."
"Can you blame me?"
"N-No. I guess not." She shivered, despite the slight warm breeze. Without a word, he sympathetically draped an arm around her. She blushed, but didn't push him away. "We used to have fun. The three of us, you know."
"Mm-hm."
They were silent again, for a long time. She began to notice how drenched she was, and felt an inexplicable need to get out of the rain. She'd never refused it before, but then again, she'd never been out with someone in it before. Particularly a boy, she thought, but pushed those thoughts away. He's not a BOY. Not that kind of boy. You don't even like him that much. Really. You don't. Realizing she was talking to - convincing? - herself, she pushed his arm away.
He almost looked . . . sorry? No, a little voice demanded, squashing any thought that wandered elsewhere. "You know, you aren't that bad. I'm . . ." she trailed, shaking her head a bit. A deep breath, and "I'm sorry."
His puzzled expression almost amused her. Rubbing his chin a bit - quite thoughtful for HHS's soon-to-be star center, she idlely thought - he grinned. "I'm sorry too."
Slightly satisfied, she got up to leave. Suddenly self-conscious, she ran a few fingers through her hair and chuckled, "Guess this is as good as it's gonna get."
"Told ya. Next time have better sense to get out of the rain," he replied with a smirk, scrambling to his feet and holding out the annoyingly bright red umbrella. She smiled back, taking the umbrella and accidentally brushing his hand in the process. Her smile faded instantaneously - the game had become awkwardly serious. She turned toward the park entrance, but without warning he bent down and pressed his lips to hers, ever-so gently.
For a moment, she forgot who she was. She forgot Phoebe, Arnold, Stinky, Harold, Olga, and the world around her. In that moment, she saw a flash; memories of the boy, that boy, ran through her mind - helping save the neighborhood, the number thirty-three, falling asleep in his lap at the opera, baseball, laughing and smiling with Phoebe - but the images were gone in another flash a split second later. She realized that he had pulled away and was now staring at her peculiarly. Raising her eyebrow, she did the only thing she could do.
She punched him.
Rubbing Old Betsy - who was sorely out of practice as of late - the blonde smiled again whispered, "You're a bold kid, Gerald Johanssen" before running home.
So maybe he wasn't perfect. Maybe he wasn't artistic or football-headed or worried about the world's problems. Certainly he wouldn't appear to her in psychotic fruit-stand hallucinations. He wasn't on-limits, or even right for her. Looking down, she saw that she held on to the red umbrella. He's not my blue umbrella'd savior on a rainy preschool morning.
But I've never really minded red.
End
A/N: Like I said, not my best. I couldn't seem to get Gerald's character right, for the life of me, but I was sick of looking at this. Questions, comments, or funny stories? Let me know, please!