A story for you guys. Something that just popped in my head. Nothing too crazy, just a reverse P&P from a female Darcy POV. Hope you like it. Hope I can find time to update it. Bear with me. Oh and enjoy!
Can't Help It
"Well since my baby left me
I've found a new place to dwell
It's down at the end of lonely street
That Heartbreak Hotel."
Chapter 1
I don't know when I became so bitter about love. Maybe it was a Friday—his name was Michael, he was in a band. Or maybe his name was Bobby and he took my virginity in the back seat of his mother's Volkswagen then had sex with another girl the same night. Or maybe it was Kevin with his big eyes and ability to make me laugh, even while telling me he suddenly has a girlfriend that he'd failed to mention.
I wouldn't go so far to say that I've ever been in love. I mean, there have been guys I liked, but when they kick me out of their bed at four in the morning I'm typically emotionally unaffected. I mean, sometimes. Or at least mostly. I'm working on it, at least.
Ok so, my track record with the male gender is enough to turn any sane girl into a lesbian or a nun. But I'm not sane. Not even in the slightest. Even still, no matter how crazy I may be, there is one thing I swear above all else in the universe: I will never fall in love.
"Darcy. I'm in love."
My best friend, Charley, however, has no such resolution. She and I have, together, been kicked, insulted and just generally ignored by the male gender since we were four. She tried to kiss her first love, Kurt Swavosky, on the playground in pre-k, he told her she had cooties and made her cry, and I pushed him into the sand box. We've been best friends ever since. End of story.
But despite our history, we couldn't be more different. She's a goddamn powder puff girl while I'm more ninja turtle. She was a cheerleader in high school; I was editor of the school paper. She liked Corey Matthews*, I was way into Shawn. She falls in love once a week, I'm more like… ok, never.
"Again?"
She's laying on my bed, staring dreamily at my ceiling. I don't see what she's looking at. It's just covered in those obnoxious glowy stars that only seem to glow on nights you can't sleep. "He's wonderful," she sighs to no one in particular.
Obnoxious, isn't she? "You're not in love."
"Not Love-Love, but I am in love."
She sits up, staring at me. I stare back over my book (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance). She's waiting for me to ask. I know she is. I've known her 19 of my 23 years now. I'm not stupid. "No, you're not," I just repeat, breaking eye contact and returning my attention to my book. "Aren't we getting too old for this?"
"Please! Just let me tell you my story!" she pleads. She is always bursting with stories. I mean, constantly. And every time we both hope it's going to be different, but every time we both end up on the sofa with another pint of Hagen Daaz discussing the fact that he "was a jerk anyway". But while I'm quite ready, even at my very young age, to admit that fairy tales are a sham; Charley here is still searching desperately for Prince Charming.
I give in, though. Honestly, it's useless. She's going to tell me anyway, and I secretly want to listen, because, at least for her, I want this one to be different. I toss my book upside down on my desk and give her my full attention. She dives in without me even asking.
"So I was coming home from work and I was on my bicycle at that weird section of Broadway, you know the really scary crossing?"
I nod.
"Anyway! This car comes out of nowhere and just—BAM! His me."
I jump and immediately start examining her for wounds. "What the fuck? Are you ok? How did you not mention—"
"Yeah, yeah fine." She brushes it off. "Anyway. The guy who hit me, well, he was really cute—like really, really cute. And he felt so guilty he insisted he give me a ride home. And we got to talking and, long story short, I'm in love."
Silence.
"Really though. Are you sure you're ok?"
"Oh god. You're just like him." She starts pulling her ginger hair back into a ponytail, sweeping her bangs off her face to reveal a golf-ball sized lump on her forehead. "I don't need to go to the hospital. I'm fine."
I jump up from my chair and force her head into a position which allows me to examine her wound, my mouth open in shock.
"I'm fine," she protests. "Really." She finally wrenches me off of her and pulls her bangs back down in front of her head.
I glare for a second. "You need to take better care of yourself."
"Ok, mom." She sulks for a second before snapping back to it. "You didn't let me get to the best part!"
"The best part of almost getting killed?"
She rolls her eyes, clearly telling me to shut up. "He is on an Ultimate Frisbee team. They need girls. So… I signed us up!"
"What?" I'm jumping out of my chair again. "I'm not playing Frisbee." I leave the room before she can protest.
Sadly, she follows. "It'll be fun!" she complains as I cross into our tiny kitchen and begin rummaging through the pantry for food. Chips. Excellent. I tare them open as she continues to wail. "Please, please, please, Darcy! Just this once?"
I shake my head and shove a handful of chips into my mouth. "I haptemspots."
"What?"
I swallow and repeat. "I hate team sports."
"Oh come on!" She pulls her big eyes. Ugh. She's such a ginger bitch and I hate her I really do.
"No."
She changes tactics and follows me and my bag of chips into our living room where I plop down on the couch and begin rummaging through my closest stack of books. "You owe me one, Darcy!"
I stop. Owe her one? I look up at her questioningly.
"Remember that night with Tom the weird looking Nihilist that you found 'charming'?"
I shudder. In retrospect, probably a bad call.
"And remember how you said that you would do anything for me if I went to that weird German play—"
"Waiting for Godot is not—"
"And I went and sat through hours of you two flirting at the after party?"
I frown. "What's your point?"
She grins. "My point is: Welcome to the Frisbee team, Darcy Fitzpatrick."
*Corey Matthwes and Shawn are characters from the iconic sitcom "Boy Meets World". Educate yourself.