You're a detective and his dark brown eyes, twinkling and sparkling with a dangerous, mischievous energy, holds a mystery for you to solve.
You like solving mysteries and puzzles, it makes you feel good to find order in the midst of all the chaos sweeping around you.
You're father lovingly calls you his "Nancy Drew" and you spend your nights curled up in your bed, reading detective stories.
You have blonde hair and light eyes, just like Nancy; but you're pretty sure Nancy doesn't have a million freckles or a huge overbite.
Or legs like long whittled down sticks.
You don't like Nancy; she's too rich, too pretty, too perfect.
Her hats are cute though.
You identify with George. She's a tom-boy, like you. She speaks whatever comes to her mind, like you.
You're pretty sure that Nancy Drew would never be able to solve a riddle as complex as Darrel Curtis.
But George would.
You think you know him.
He's goofy, talks too much, a bit immature, protective of those he loves, and a devil to those he doesn't. Did you mention he likes to talk a lot?
Every time you think you got him figured out, there he goes, pulling the rug out from under you.
Like how he's always trying to nick your name and call you Jo-Jo or Joey. You laugh the first time; but when he keeps on calling you "Joey-Jo-Jo" you firmly tell him that your name is Jo, not Joey, and certainly not Jo-Jo.
Actually, your real name is Karen Josephine, but Jo is much more your style: unadorned, practical and to the point, just like you.
Then one day, out of blue he tells you, "You know Jo, if you marry me, you're initials would be J.C. just like Jesus Christ. Ain't that something?"
He flashes you a goofy, wide-set grin; the one that display all of his pearly-whites.
Wait, Marry? You are only thirteen, why was he thinking of marriage? Besides, you knew he was sweet on Ethel Bowman. She was cute and had a sweet little bird voice.
Your voice certainly does not sound like a sweet bird.
A mother hen, maybe.
"I'd rather be Joan Crawford," you deadpan.
Your hand flies over your mouth. Did you really say that? Was that blasphemous?
He just laughs.
"You got her legs, girl."
He doesn't look at you, the tips of his ears are red.
You're the one who makes the first move.
You take his hand.
You tell yourself that it's just a friendly gesture on your part, that you don't want him to feel embarrassed. There's no romantic feelings involved. None at all.
But you cannot help but smile when he squeezes your hand back.
He grins at you. His grin makes your heart do cartwheels and somersaults.
He looks at you, his brown eyes serious for once.
"No, I'm serious Jo, maybe you're supposed to save me."
You don't know what to say, you just look out at the river. The two of you. Holding hands. Quiet.
You rarely see him mad, but when he loses his temper it reminds you of dust storm, knocking even the strongest to the ground, blinding everyone in sight.
You remember the first time he loses his temper with you. The two of you are at the river, he jumps in fully clothed and shouts out "come on Jo, take the plunge! The water ain't that cold."
You hesitate, and Darrel makes his move, "what you ain't a chicken are you Jo Schmidt?" He gives you a mischievous grin. You know that he's just trying to get a rise out of you and against your better instinct, it works.
You're not the best swimmer in the world, but the water seems calm and besides, you're not one to back away from a challenge.
You feel yourself sinking under. You're drowning, all because of your silly pride.
He saves you, and once the two of you are sitting on the grass, breathing heavily with adrenaline and fear, he rips into you.
"What the hell is wrong with you Jo?! You coulda drowned out there!" His words don't hurt you as much as his eyes-they're blazing with fury.
You don't allow people to talk to you this way, and you're about to get right in his face and start shouting back at him when he looks down at his feet; "How'd ya think I'd handle it if something happened to you, Jo? If something happened to my girl, I don't know what I'd do."
He's never called you 'my girl' before.
You feel like you're drowning all over again.
He walks away from you.
The next morning he comes to you with a bunch of flowers (stolen) and a bathing suit for you (way too short).
"Come on, Jo, I'm gonna teach you how to swim!"
You cross your arms, "I know how to swim, Darrel."
He snorts, "yeah, that belly flop to the bottom of the river you did yesterday was some real ace swimmin' all right."
Did Darrel always have to be so incorrigible?
"Besides," he continued, "you don't gotta be perfect at everything. It's okay not to be good at something."
You're taken aback. "Perfect at everything?" Heck, you hardly think you're adequate, let alone 'perfect'. Does he really believe that you think you're perfect?
You hate for Darrel to think you're stuck up.
Before you can say anything, he continues, "the only things I'm good at are rodeos and rescuin' drowning damsels in distress." He gives you a wink and wry smile.
He's a great teacher, and when you learn how to do a fancy diving trick-well, you've never heard anyone cheer as loud as Darrel Curtis did in that moment.
He walks you home.
"Jo, I'm real sorry I yelled at you yesterday. You scared me something awful, but I shouldn't have hollered at you like that."
You take his hand again. This time, it's more than friendship.
"I'm sorry for jumping into the lake like that. Thank you for saving me."
You cringe. You're not good with thank yous. You sound too formal, too stiff.
He shrugs, like it's nothing.
"It's only fair, after all you're gonna save me."
"Why do you like me, Darrel?" You ask all of a sudden. You never got it. What did Darrel see in you?
Darrel is wordless for a moment.
"'Cuz you get me, Jo Schmidt. It sounds foolish, but I don't know who I am without you. I don't know, I ain't that good at puttin' things into words. I ain't smart like you. I know I ain't perfect, but being around you, I don't gotta be perfect, I just gotta be myself, and you still care about me."
You smile. You could say the exact the same words about him.
His very last act on this earth is trying to save you. When he loses control of the car, he does everything he can to protect you from the impact.
In that brief moment you think of the words he said to you all those years ago "maybe you're supposed to save me."
You've never thought of yourself as his, or anyone's, savior. But, that doesn't stop him from worshiping you. Even when he's at his lowest points, when the light in his eyes is burned out completely, he still looks at you with awe.
You think it's ironic that the boy who was always looking for a savior never saw those same qualities in himself. Darrel never saw himself like you saw him-the eternal optimist, the protector, the man who never, ever gave up. The man who taught you to love yourself, because you were worth it. The man who taught you that you didn't need to be perfect to be worthy of love and affection. The man who loved you with every cell of his body.
You didn't save him, he saved you.
You think of the decades you've had together, your children, the good times and the bad. You think about the time you almost drown. You think about your dead baby. You think of Darrel's gambling. You think of the fights. You think of the nights just staying up and talking-about everything and nothing at the same time.
You think about the goofy kid with dirty finger nails and a grin that lights up the world.
You think about the awkward girl who dreams of becoming a detective.
You never became a detective, but there has never been a mystery you've had as much joy as trying to solve as Darrel Curtis.
You can't talk, but if you could you know just what you would say to your soulmate, "I think we saved each other. Thank you. I love you."
A/N: S.E. Hinton owns
Nancy Drew, George, are characters from the Nancy Drew series, attributed to Carolyn Keene.
"Joey Jo-Jo" is a little shout out to The Simpsons. ;)
Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed. :)