Timber Shakes These Trails
~the wonderful oz~
a/n: i should be updating LAFJITB (and i will soon, i swear), but inspirations aren't to be ignored, especially inspirations that are born at eleven at night. bear with my awful updating, and (maybe) find it in your hearts to enjoy reading this oneshot.
thank you tash, angela, lisa, and livvy for the prompts [peppermint, a canadian maple syrup granola bar, paint splatters, and three rings that spell out 'i love you']. dedicated everyone on the clique archive (where did you all disappear to?).
disclaimed. title from right before my eyes by cage the elephant. thank you angela for beta-ing.
(-)
Wispy flaxen hair and translucent skin make up Olivia Ryan, for the most part. She unremittingly dresses in rash hues of flamboyant, Barney-the-dinosaur violet, and tattered sneakers enclose her equally bright toenails. Rather than interweaving her pale hair into endearing little plaits coordinated with glossy ribbons, Olivia lets it hang loose beside her sunken cheeks like oily shutters.
Alicia admires Olivia's mutinous attitude, but would never dare share her notions with Claire, who would presumably choke on the always-present, piquant peppermint bonbon lodged between her molars and then insist that Alicia see a therapist.
Not that Alicia hasn't been to a therapist before—she has, but only because of the social anxiety (often confused with the very divergent schizophrenic or clinically depressed), not because of her opinion on the very unruly Olivia Ryan.
"Leesh!" Drawing her books to her chest, feeling warmth on her neck and warmth on her cheeks, Alicia wields her hand and beckons to Claire.
"Hey Claire," she smiles precariously. Alicia wonders if Claire can sense vulnerability; if she can see the trembling muscles in her shoulders and the obtruding blue veins in her neck.
Claire smiles—oblivious, it seems—and winds a wisp of yellow around her finger. "There's a new kid, did you know?"
No, she didn't know. But Alicia nods, because it's Claire, and she'll be asserted loser-for-the-day if she doesn't. "Of course."
(-)
"Hello Alicia." Her name is Kristen Gregory—"Just call me Kristen"—and it's stamped across a bronze nameplate in heavy, certified, agency font.
She sticks out an impeccably polished hand, inquisitive eyes searching Alicia's face. The sheen of perspiration glazing her palms and the quivering of her agitated muscles is suddenly there, and Alicia hates everything: Kristen, the ostentatious nameplate, the anxiety, and herself.
"So," the therapist says, after dropping her hand to her waist and walking over to the ostensibly pricey refrigerator in the corner. Kristen gestures in the direction of the trimly-stacked soft drinks on the bottom shelf and lifts two pale eyebrows.
Alicia declines.
She doesn't make much of an effort to explain that Coke scalds her throat.
That Sprite begets scorching burps.
That she finds Pepsi repulsive.
That Mountain Dew produces agonizing headaches.
Kristen flips through her manila folder swiftly, and then drags her ruby fingernail down a particularly inky page. "Alicia Rivera," she reads tediously. "Social anxiety."
The therapist then launches into a reasonably dreary sermon, explaining that social anxiety, or social phobia, is the third largest psychological problem in the United States, and how millions of people are affected by it each year.
When she's asked to describe her reactions, the words burst from Alicia's lips because she's held them in like an unutterable secret for too long. She describes the severe unease of eating or drinking in the presence of other people, and the quivering of her hands when being stared at, and the terse spasms in her shoulders, similar to aggressive shivers.
When she finishes, Alicia looks up and waits patiently as Kristen's vibrant fingernails fumble with the glossy plastic wrapper of a Canadian maple syrup granola bar. When she takes a bite, a portion of sweet granola sticks like adhesive to her crimson veneer of lipstick.
While she chews leisurely, Alicia prepares herself for the worst, like a miserable 'I can't help you.'
Instead, Kristen folds her hands and leans forward, a minute tug on the corner of her lips. "Many therapeutic methods have been studied, but cognitive-behavioral therapy has proven to be the most effective." An intake of breath follows, brief and fleeting.
Alicia's fingers are crossed under the table.
(-)
The introductions come to pass on Monday morning, when Claire calls her name and Alicia turns.
She's hauling a lanky golden-haired boy by his cotton sleeve, resolute grit flaring in her enigmatic blue eyes.
"Alicia, Derrick," Claire says quickly, albeit articulating perfectly. "He's new." Alicia can hear the firm clank of the peppermint against her teeth when she speaks.
"Hi, Alicia." The Derrick-character smiles graciously and offers his hand.
"Hi," Alicia mutters faintly, timidly extending her own. She waits for him to scrutinize her face and look her up and down inquisitively. She waits for the violent quaking of her fingers and a continental-sized blush to materialize on her cheeks.
But it never comes. Incredulous, Alicia ogles Derrick for a moment before a slow smile—slow as molasses—stretches across her face.
Claire pulls Alicia aside afterwards, her piercing fingernails digging into Alicia's flesh, leaving the dark skin embedded with puckering pink falcate prints. "What the hell was that?" She spits ferociously, glaring at Alicia with aversion curling her lips.
Alicia bites her lip until it's probably tinged with a spineless blue, and it's only a matter of time before the skin breaks and she draws blood. "What?" She squeaks, her chest heaving as she pants uncontrollably.
"You were—you were, like, flirting with him," Claire hisses spitefully, stomping her foot in a way only girls like Claire do.
Alicia's mediocre attempts at convincing Claire that she wasn't flirting with him were fruitless.
"Just don't," Claire snapped, flicking hair out of her flaring eyes. "Don't even talk to him."
And that was that.
(-)
It just so happens that Derrick is in most of her classes, and of this Alicia is not thankful, as there is something about being just feet away from an attractive boy you aren't allowed to speak to that ruins perfectly pleasant afternoons.
He smiles at her sometimes, and her stomach muscles clench as her throat constricts.
She feels like she's all bone, feeble and frail, and her cheeks are red twining with cherry, easing into burgundy and fading into pink.
Sometimes he tries to start a conversation, and she wants to respond—craves, even—but she can't, because a mini-Claire is perched on her shoulder and dictates Alicia's fragile puppet strings.
Today, he says 'Hi, Alicia' as he strolls by, weightless fingertips trailing down the wood of her desk. She can't help it; a breathy 'hi' slips from the between crack in her thin arid lips.
Crimson blood flows to her cheeks in a rushing wave; in a heartbeat, with a breath.
It's funny even; she's patting down her hair and inspecting her makeup and lacing up her paint-splattered laces because for the first time, she cares.
(-)
"So, what is it, exactly?" Alicia is alleviating the outbreak of rashes on her neck with a cool hand, but has eyes only for Kristen.
Kristen adjusts the collar of her floral blouse, the hoary shade of her nails clashing with the palette of rosy pink and honey peach resting against her chest.
"Cognitive-behavioral therapy is a form of psychotherapy that emphasizes the important role of thinking in how we feel and what we do. It's is based on the idea that our thoughts cause our feelings and behaviors, not external things; the benefit of this being the hope that we can change the way we think to feel and act better."
Alicia wrinkles her nose, because her idea of social anxiety opposes Kristen's, and how is she supposed to work with someone seeing the world through an entirely different pair of eyes?
Kristen leans forward. "It's important you and I have a positive relationship. Cognitive-behavioral therapy is a collaborative effort between the therapist and the client. You'll need to trust me." Kristen inclines her eyebrows. "Do you trust me?"
"No." It's a firm declaration without leaking holes.
But she isn't offended in the slightest. "Well then, we'd had better get started." Kristen smiles broadly. "Tell me about yourself, Alicia."
Alicia can feel herself being scrutinized and she mentally crumbles. "I don't know how to start," she complains, feeling marooned and weak.
Kristen stirs her spoon around in her tea mug and muses, "'My name is Alicia Rivera, and I have social anxiety.'"
(-)
Claire's birthday is on a Wednesday, made perfect by sun-drenched trees and emerald stalks of grass and a warm, soothing sun.
She arrives at school with golden curls pinned behind her diamond earlobes, clothed in a checkered skirt and navy blouse, greedy palms filled with a cacophony of wrapped boxes and bulging bags.
"Happy birthday, Claire," Alicia says, her own gift concealed behind her back. Claire smiles sweetly and grants Alicia with a rare hug. Her scrawny arms and bony torso feel inapt against Alicia's, and the slight brown hairs on her forearms rise.
Derrick shuffles over then, inquisitive caramel eyes peeking through the yellow of his hair. "Happy birthday," he says quietly.
Claire coos and offers animated grins. He's something like a pet to her, it seems. Derrick turns to Alicia and says his custom hello, but she has to pretend like he's an impenetrable brick wall as Claire's just a foot away.
Alicia surrenders her gift and Claire daintily tears the tape and slits the golden wrapping paper. The gift sheds its skin and reveals three white-gold rings, chunky and obnoxiously flamboyant; Alicia knows Claire will never wear them.
But, as it's a gift, Claire says with counterfeit lovability, "Oh, how cute."
Claire stares at the three rings, crowned with the skillfully scripted words I Love You, and forces yet another smile. "Thank you, Alicia."
It's Derrick's turn, and he presents Claire with a gift card to Ben&Jerry's. Needless to say Claire hates gift cards and ice cream, but she enthusiastically throws her arms around Derrick's neck and hugs him closely.
"You're the best!" Claire chuckles.
Alicia stands, watching them, and wonders when exactly she will start being the best again.
(-)
As the year goes by, her social anxiety improves; Kristen's ecstatic. The therapy takes no more than sixteen weeks.
When the maple trees dye the sky auburn in the fall, Derrick begins to talk. And it's not just talking; it's more like holding conversations, really. Alicia loves being able to flush like an ordinary girl.
Icicles are suspended from buildings like muted wind chimes in the winter. Derrick brings two mugs of hot chocolate—sweet, runny liquid that slips effortlessly down her throat—to class. They're sent to the principal's office, but at any rate, Alicia's smiling.
Flowers bloom in the spring, and suddenly the ground is silk cloth, snarled threads of blue and yellow of red. There's the school dance— Derrick invites Claire, and she dresses so lavishly it's as though she's getting married. But when the night ends, Alicia has danced with him four times, and the soles of her feet are throbbing.
(-)
Their first kiss is clumsy and graceless and occurs beside the water fountain on a Friday.
Alicia's leaning over the spout, her fingers dynamically digging into the knob. When she pulls away, Derrick's standing before her with his own fingers shoved deeply in his pockets.
"Oh, hi Alicia." He seems surprised, at the very least; the darkness of astonishment is evident in his eyes.
She's on the brink of collapsing from yearning—his eyes are brown and his hair is yellow and his jeans are slack and he's…perfect.
Without very much thinking on her part, Alicia holds his lips for a transitory, short-lived total of two seconds.
She pulls away and her lips are embedded with him, quivering faintly like she's whispering in undertone. Alicia's suddenly anxious, because it was such a stupid, such an absurd thing to do. She doesn't want to look up at him in fear of an unconstructive reaction, a callous rejection, but when he sighs, her eyes reluctantly flit skyward to meet his.
Her heart is thudding and she's feeling ballistic, because in the three seconds that he doesn't move she's counting the Mississippi's and Claire's enraged eyes (cerulean and the murky green of the sea intertwined) have come to life in her mind.
"Cool," he grins suddenly, and it's the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to her. Alicia soars.
Derrick bends down and their lips converge again, and Alicia isn't fretting about Claire or concerned that her social anxiety might return, but instead relishes the taste of his Chapstick.
This, of course, is perfect to boot.
a/n: unbelievably lame, i know. and it probably didn't make too much sense either. feel free to ask if you were confused, or demand a refund if you hated it. i did some research on c.b.t. and social anxiety (hopefully i got my facts right).
i'll try to shorten these author's notes. concrit, anyone?
-hannah