thanks to my beta charlotte for editing this, c: this is for the valentine's day exchange at octavian country day, for hannah (gillan), with the prompts of soda, tame impala, the nickname 'nugget' and the pairing of massiederrick - hope you like this, c:
this is more of a plot-based oneshot rather than a description based one, so i'm sorry in advance if the plot is rushed —
buy the stars
massiederrick
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"people always want to know what it feels like, so i'll tell you: there's a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you've done something you shouldn't have, and yet you've gotten away with it. then you sort of go into a trance, because it's truly dazzling — that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. and — god — the sweet release, that's the best way i can describe it, kind of like a balloon that's tied to a little kid's hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. you just know that balloon is thinking, ha, i don't belong to you after all; and at the same time, do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? and then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights.
when reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don't ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. you can feel your embarrassment; it's a backbeat underneath your pulse. whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. you literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you've let yourself down. so you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it's summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. you throw the bloody tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy."
— handle with care / jodi picoult
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I. NASCENT
Derrick Harrington walks into the Blocks' mansion on a Friday afternoon.
There's butterfly staircases and a maid named Inez who hobbles around with glasses of ice-cold lemonade; children form in small circles, discussing something akin to childhood gossip, giggling now and then - he sits down in a group of familiar-looking people from his elementary school, somewhat left out of the conversation of ballroom dancing and violin lessons.
Why don't you go play with the boys, Derrick, darling? Kendra Block murmurs, sending a warning glance at Massie, who turns away, a slight frown on her face, but she's not ready to defy her own mother, not at this early stage, at least. There's a good boy, Kendra continues as Derrick toddles off into the grassy green lawn where a gaggle of pre-teen athletes have assembled; the new boy sticks out like neon green in a pile of silks, and awkwardly fumbles his way throughout the fields, other people picking on his tweed clothing and erratic habits.
Why'd you do that, Mother? Massie asks, looking up at her mother with the slightest bit of distaste and disappointment, laced within the sweet, dulcet tones of an eight-year old. We were only playing a game, and you're letting Cameron play with us.
Kendra smiles down at her only child, and wonders why she had even let her perfect societal daughter stray so far from perfection. Darling, you wouldn't understand - people like Derrick, they're just not the same as us. When you get older, I'll tell you all about new money and how risky they can be - they'll make you stray from perfection, from a happily ever after, and you wouldn't want that, now would you? Massie shakes her head, obstinately, in response, though tilts her head slightly to the side, looking for the familiar boy who reminds her of puppies and things she can't have. Now, go along, play with Alicia and Cameron.
Massie nods, and walks over to the corner with the slightest bit of pause in her step - Kendra leans against the marble counter and stares gloomily into the sunset, wondering if everything was eventually going to end up just fine. Massie smiles reluctantly at the assembled group, and even lets Alicia boss the two of them around - there's the mommy and the daddy and the little princess, and it's not the same without their dog. Do you want to go find our doggy? She murmurs, ignoring her mother's words of caution.
A few days ago, she had seen her mother injecting vials of liquid into her arm, and then the trails of smoke that circled around crinkling cigarettes, and coming home late, smelling of loss and regret, so her mother's words of caution didn't really mean that much, not anymore. Cameron smiles, tugging his arm away from Alicia who places a tight grasp on her 'husband', but eventually acquiesces. Fine, Alicia consents. Just we have to get back before tea time, 'cause my mom's going to introduce me to Skye Hamilton who's the captain of the dance team at the Academy—
Massie rolls her eyes, and drags around Alicia and Cameron, who smile, laughing as their ebony and straw-coloured hair catches underneath the sunlight, azure eyes and chocolate beams filled with innocence as one crosses grassy knolls in one's own imagination, and then they're back where they started— together. Derrick, Derrick, wherever you are! Alicia grins, thinking that life is nothing but a game.
(They find him, and Derrick thinks that apparently, the lost dog in New York is something important.)
.
When Derrick Harrington is eleven years old, his parents force him to get a job.
It's for your own experience, they say simply, and you can spend all the money you make on whatever you want, whether it's video games or some food or even a gift for a friend. Anything. It seems like a reasonable enough deal, the rewards greater than the risks.
He makes twenty dollars on the first day - minimum wage rates and all that, even if the job had been acquired somewhat illegally through place and bribery and the like - and Sammi takes him to the mall. Just . . . just don't waste it on something you're going to regret, later, okay? She says, with the wise tone of somebody who's already made enough mistakes for a lifetime.
I won't, Derrick promises - he strides off into the mall, ignoring all the fancy name-brand shops that he sees his mother and older sister going into occasionally and walks upon one of those vendors in the center of the mall, next to the hot-dog stands with ice-cold lemonade and cheap quality soda for the summer months and the peppermint bark hot chocolate that warms Derrick in the midst of icy cold winters. He remembers something, out of the corner of his mind, of Massie Block's eleventh birthday party, and fingers the gilded watch with its fake silver inner linings, and immediately purchases it, walking out of the store with a smile on his face.
He walks home - the few blocks to the smaller end of Westchester, the one without three-story mansions and paved stone driveways, golden lion statues and iron wrought railings for protection - and smiles at his mother. I got a gift for Massie, he says, expecting some sort of congratulations - it was either this or that new video game that Josh had bragged about for ages, and the latter of the items seemed slightly selfish, to say the least. Do you think she'll like it?
Derrick, I already bought Massie's gift, his mother murmurs. People like the Block's - you can't buy them a gift that cost twenty dollars; they'll throw it away in the garbage can . . . while you're watching. Do you understand me, Derrick?
Derrick thinks that he doesn't understand society in Westchester any longer, but shrugs his shoulders, nonetheless, but slips the watch into the gift bag; three days later, he finds himself at the threshold of the Block mansion, and this time walks in with what he hopes is a broad smile, sipping on the drink that Inez immediately brings him, her shoulders hunched and feet throbbing within three-inch heels, back narrow and hair whitening, of course, at the request of Miss Block. He places his gift in the center of the living room, and later, watches the gift wrapping from the outskirts of the living room; Massie, of course, looks nothing less than perfect with Mary Janes and white socks pulled up to her ankles, immediately reaching towards grey tights with lacy, fraying edges.
She stops upon the messily-wrapped present, and glares at her mother out of the corner of her eye, and Derrick feels his hope drop a little, but reminds himself that she hasn't even opened the gift yet (he wonders why he even cares about what Massie Block likes or not). Cammie, did you buy this for me? This is . . . fake gold. I don't even wear watches - they clash with my outfits.
Cam moves backward, protecting his face with one hand before muttering, I didn't buy you that watch. He smiles then, broadly, picking up the small box from behind him, gilded brand-names glistening off the top. I bought you this - your mother said that you put it on hold at Tiffany's, so uh, . . . he trails off uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck, and stays silent for a moment before continuing. I'm not sure if you even like it, but there's always a receipt —
Massie smiles broadly, her expression full of ebullience, white pearly teeth glistening underneath the reflection of sunlight that dances off the windows, her amber eyes sparkling with warmth, and presses her strawberry glossed lips in a chaste action onto Cam's reddening cheeks, and dons the Tiffany's diamond bracelet, before running off with a group of friends, and now and then, glancing back at who is apparently her 'new boyfriend'.
Derrick leaves the party early, and thinks that this is what it feels like to have your heart broken.
.
They're friends of friends, Massie mutters to herself on a cold winter day, so he probably knows something about the Cam situation. Massie secludes herself within the warmth of Isaac's Range Rover, painted fingernails entangled around an old-fashioned hot chocolate cup, a spoonful of sugar and six low-fat marshmallows bobbing at the surface, partly dissolved. Then, she changes her mind — trusting rogue heir Derrick Harrington was everything akin to a mistake; instead, she stares down at her traditional schoolgirl outfit, chestnut curls matched with a flushed yet pale face — her skin tone was darker than most at Octavian Country Day, though Massie likes to compare herself to Snow White due to the stark comparison with her darker curls — and crimson tinges of lipstick, capped with a swipe of cotton candy lip gloss. She purses her lips together, pulling down the slightly fraying edges of a favorite crimson skirt, and exits the vehicle, adjusting her curls so they're splayed naturally.
Cameron exits from the white school bus, hopping out with a traditional leather jacket and his Drakkar Noir musk infiltrates her nostrils. Cam, she approaches him, taking long strides through the paved walkways that circle the school as though they are guideline boundaries, we need to talk.
Uh, okay — what about? He replies back with a hesitant voice, expression neutral and Massie's eyes narrow in response — there hadn't been a single mistake she made; she had gone to all the stupid Tomahawk pep rallies though the stench and overwhelming happiness made her want to vomit vehemently, never made an accidental mistake where she would be spotted with her lips against another's. In short, she had been the perfect girlfriend but Cam looked at her as though she was an estranged cousin with a bad nose-picking habit.
She turns towards him moments later, expression expectant. Alicia walks into the situation, an oblivious smile imprinted upon her face; her eyes are laden with golden eye-shadow, and her lips are painted cherry. My little nugget, she says in an obnoxiously loud tone, and envelops Cameron in a hug; they exchange looks as though there's always something deep-down buried between the two of them — Cam looks at Alicia in an almost restrained manner, eyes roaming over her slightly seductive walk, and Massie resists the urge to slap her best friend. Or her boyfriend; maybe just for the sake of it, both of them.
I think I love you, Massie mutters loudly enough for Cam to hear, but not loud enough for the entire gossiping courtyard to erupt into something akin to pandemonium.
He stutters, stepping back. Mass, it's only been three years. If it wasn't for the somewhat distraught situation — Massie was a traditional type of girl, who believed in happily ever afters and thought that the first time she told somebody that she loved them, they would say it back — she might have laughed, because three years was plenty of time to decide one's feelings; there were relationships in Octavian Country Day that had gone on for six months before the I love you, I love you too. Romeo and Juliet had only taken something around two hours to decide their superficial infatuation with one another, and they were declared to be the most tragic lovers of all time.
Is this because of Alicia? Alicia's moved away by now, perhaps getting the signal despite her increasingly oblivious nature; in response to his statement, Massie crosses her arms and tries not to let her amber orbs become narrow slits, skimming over Cameron, as though something's different about him, almost in a scrutinizing manner.
What - how does Alicia even fit into this? Though his tone is innocent, Massie thinks that she knows better; Cam's the sort of the boy that every girl falls for — how could they not fall for him? He's the nice guy, the one that will ask you out to prom by placing fireworks in the sky or maybe singing under your window with a hand-made invitation, a guitar strung around his shoulders, the golden boy; a golden boy deserves nothing more than a princess, and for the first time, Massie reluctantly admits to herself that she's never been Cinderella.
She sighs. We're done, Cam. He doesn't follow and Massie thinks that it's just like Alicia Rivera to steal unsuspecting golden boys and nerdy red-head musicians with an oblivious bat of gold-rimmed eyelashes. She lets herself bottle up emotions in the solace of the Range Rover vehicle, shielded from the world with tinted windows and makes a promise to herself to never let anybody see her cry.
.
It's been three months, Massie, Dylan murmurs one day at lunch, in a tone that's meant to be soft and reassuring, but her booming voice echoes across the cavernous walls of the canteen; blank gazes turn towards the five girls who sit in a cluster at one of the courtyard lunch tables, though it's only the beginnings of a spring. You need to start moving on — Cam's already way past that stage.
She motions to Cameron who sits at the outskirts of the canteen, lips interlocked with Heather's; it's a habitual pattern he seems to get into, throwing away girls like half-used Kleenex, all with broken hearts that will never be completely mended. Just back together with him already, Claire nods, taking a breath as she tears her eyes away from the gruesome break-up scene that follows minutes later. Everybody knows that the two of you were meant to be together — most of us knew way before the two of you did.
Don't rush into it, though, Alicia says in a way that's meant to be understanding, but Massie rolls her eyes (she still hasn't told Alicia about the reason of the CamandMassie break-up, and she decides that it'll be best not to; Cameron might have ruined her first actual relationship, but he wasn't going to ruin her best friendship). Don't want to get your heart broken, y'know. Maybe a makeover will help; Nina said that she can hook us up with some cute Spanish boys, and summer break's just around the corner, so goodbye Westchester, hola —
She stops as Massie directs her a firm glare, eyes slightly glazed over and her lips tighten into a sharp smile at the prospect of summer vacation, which always did something to take her mind of things. I'm not running away from my problems, Leesh. I'm going to face them. Massie thinks that if she says those words enough times, she'll start to believe them and not call an emergency flight to Paris boulevards to live with her estranged father (he ran away from his problems, and look where that got him), among city lights and another world of illusions.
Fine, Alicia says, pursing her lips, we'll just have to find someone new for you to prey on - I mean, date.
(Massie displays a fake expression of apology when her Glaceau water bottle 'accidentally' ends up spilling against Alicia's Ralph Lauren ensemble — accidents do happen, y'know.)
.
So that's how Massie Block ended up at 'Slice of Heaven', feeling awfully overdressed with a necklace of bullions hanging around her neck, a diamond ring, mostly bling, sparkling off of her ring finger to ward off any of the soccer boy creeps and upperclassmen who had an unfortunate habit to slip by her for a little too long —she stares at her reflection in the mirror, impatiently. A swipe of apple flavored lip gloss covers her mouth, the rest of her face kept bare; a white and black dress with a tight bow at the back would seem casual for any Westchurian-styled event, but at a small pizza place at the corner of Canal and Bowery in mid-town, she seems out of place.
There's a tap of her shoulder, and Massie, slightly fatigued with the insistent demands of her to leave, takes the small can of pepper spray out of her clutch, and sprays it at the chocolate eyes that appear in front of her — she's frozen for a moment, and the spray reaches her eyes as the can spins out of her control, and for a few seconds, her eyes feel as though they're on fire, instead of the typical icy, yet burning rage. Are you okay? A hesitant voice speaks up from the distance, and Massie resists the urge to elbow the person who had tapped her shoulder, therefore causing this situation to happen.
For some reason or another, she doesn't feel in the worst type of mood, and replies shortly with an I'm fine, okay — you can go now.
I don't think that's how a blind date's supposed to work; I'm not really sure, though - I haven't been on a lot of these so far. Then again, I've never been to the pizza place, but Cam recommended it. The figure in front of her starts to clarify itself during her blurred vision, and she's able to make out the faint outlines of somebody who's probably on the soccer team (HART level was what she had clarified to Alicia), with chocolate eyes and something akin to nervousness on his face. It would have been slightly amusing if not for the pepper spray that had lodged itself in the retina of her eye; she blinks a few times, trying out a hesitant smile before removing it from her facial features — it was too unlike her, anyways.
Later that night, her lips mold onto his, like ice melting; she pulls back moments later, amber eyes closed in slits, and Massie pushes back forward once more, filling the kiss with the bitter tinge of regret and loneliness.
.
Massie Block is like something out of Fitzgerald or Thoreau, Derrick thinks to himself, something fictional, that slips out of your grasp.
Fraying threads brush against icy skin, and Massie shivers underneath the intensity of the moonlight. Uh, I was the one to buy you that watch . . . for your eleventh birthday, the one you thought Cam had bought you, Derrick admits, anything to fill the silence - silence was always uncomfortable, even more uncomfortable with Massie Block who he always felt was judging him, amber eyes cold and scrutinizing.
Why are you telling me this? She tilts her head, sharply to the side; Massie refrains from asking about the more important question - if they were official, things of the like - and instead displays a grim smile, reflecting her current attitude towards life in itself, and the situation before the two of them. I mean, she moves to rephrase her question, how is that important?
He takes a deep breath, it's important, because you still love Cam. Uh, Alicia showed me your scrapbook.
She had no right to show you that, Massie immediately says, her tone and place in defense; her arms cross, and she reluctantly sits back on the bench in the middle of Central Park. I made that scrapbook when I was seven years old; when I was seven years old, I was a lot different than I am now - of course, like any other girl, I had dreams of marrying Cameron Fisher. All the girls did - ask any one of them.
I can't do this anymore, he turns towards her (and it's over as quick as it began) and walks in the opposite direction.
.
It's at the Golden Gala in mid-June where everything pieces itself back together —
Underneath the golden chandeliers and the delicate clinking of glasses, the prince reclaims his princess, and of course, Massie Block, with all of her whimsical fantasies of being the princess in one of those classic movies, accepted the offer of Cameron Fisher, and the two of them announced their official status; there was a smattering round of applause (louder than the sarcastic clapping when Massie Block and Derrick Harrington announced when they were introduced into society), and the gossip rounds began once more as the noises dwindled down. Derrick Harrington takes a breath and tries not to let the expression on his face display one of being lost — but he is, because he's had a crush on this girl since kindergarten, and she'll never actually like him, not with her magical Prince Charming around — and exits the room in the midst of the later hours.
He hails a taxi cab - a checkered one with the smooth wheels upon the heated pavement outside of the Rivera mansion - and takes out his cellphone, looking for the latest flights away. Where to? The man inside of the cab asks, and for a moment, Derrick thinks about all the plans that Massie and he had made — to see the world, that is; to Paris with the golden, flickering lights, to Italy with the romantic blossoming of art (and growing secularism of society), to Greece, to revisit ancient culture (and debt problems), to Tuscany simply because it was a must — and brushes the thought of his mind.
The airport, Derrick responds briefly, shoving a wad of money (something of a birthday present from dear old Cameron), and sits in the back seat, slowly drifting away from the classical night and smiling faces, and thinks that apparently, the lost dog in New York City wasn't such a big deal after all.
.
II. DELUGE
"So, did you get the invitation?" Claire briefly mentions, flicking a streak of straw-coloured hair back, setting down her phone upon the coffee table.
Massie rolls her eyes, "Uh, uh." She traces a Lewis structure on the back of her hand, admiring the way that the lead scratches into her skin as permanent marks; it's not so much as the slight amount of blood that drips from the palm that is a somewhat interesting means of way to pass the time, but the way that the mark stays, like something steady — it'll never go away. Massie stands up and picks up the telephone box blue envelope with the ridiculously gaudy postcard within with something akin to gold lettering and gilded words for the date, event, and other information about the Briarwood Octavian Country Day Reunion for the Class of 2007.
"Are you going?" Claire continues, her voice obnoxiously high despite two years since the graduation; she dons a clothing garment akin to overalls with home-made done bangs and just reflects purity and innocence and Cinderella (everything Massie's ever wanted to be) and after all this time, Massie still fixes a fly stray of hair and pulls down self-consciously on her two thousand dollar skirt and thinks that she'll never be as 'little-miss-perfect' as Claire Lyons will effortlessly be.
"Do you think that I would even want to go to back to that lame school?" Massie retorts, her tone filled with anger but mostly with bitter undertones; an expression of hurt flashes around Claire's face, and for a moment, Massie almost feels triumphant.
"Just two years ago, you were obsessed about life at Briarwood Octavian Country Day! Remember, how you made us do those ratings in front of the Fountain and how we walked to a specific rhythm with the click-clack of our stiletto heels, and oh, yeah, those messed up boys—"
Massie raises a hand to silence Claire's endless ramblings. "Two years ago, I was seventeen years old; I was immature and had a serious obsession with micro-managing every little detail of my life. I've changed, you see." She stands up, and motions towards her side of the Yale bedroom, upon the wall which is scrawled out a meticulously written timeline, dating every deemed significant event of her first two years at the preparatory school in New Haven, Connecticut. "Year one, week four — I ended up making new friends without changing their horrible fashion habits such as EOS lip balm addictions and somewhat obsessive fangirling over this television show and that. Year one, week thirty — I went on a blind date with James Webster, and I've been in a happy, successful relationship with him ever since."
Claire throws her hands back up in defense, "I get it, you've changed. But what would you do to me if I said the name Derrick Harrington?"
"Nothing," she quickly replies, pursing her cherry-painted lips together. "That name belongs in the past, and this is my future."
"The past always catches up with you, Mass — anyway, you're going. I already RSVP'ed yes for the both of us; anyway, you can't miss this event - if you don't come, Kori's probably going to start spreading rumors that you're a drug addict who committed treason after falling in love with a fellow asylum member, but it's a tragic love story so everybody will eat it up, anyways," Claire says, nodding, as though this is some sort of realistic story than the entire population of Octavian Country Day (who mind, you, had an average of 2360 for an SAT Score, and the highest acceptance for Ivy Leagues in the Tri-State Area - whether it was due to oh-so-generous donations or real merit, nobody really knows -) would eat up.
She shrugs her shoulders, "I don't care what those people have to say about me; those are rumors, and I know the truth, and that's all that really matters in the end, y'know? It doesn't matter what they think of me, it matters what I think about myself."
"I already said yes, and I'm not going to risk the wrath of Alicia Rivera just because you're pretending like you don't care what people think of you; I know you, Mass, and you care what other people think of you — you had like three different high school relationships just for the sake of social standing, so..." Claire trails off uncomfortably, tilting her head towards the side, as if half-hearted, not really qualifying as complete insults will wear down Massie Block.
Massie raises her eyebrows, "You really care about what Leesh thinks of you — you know that the two of you were never really tight friends back in high school, so I'm not sure why now, when none of us have seen each other for over seven months, she still has such a strong influence over you. I'm not going, and that's final."
"Cam's going," Claire lightly drops in, a small smile curving at the corner of her lips, anticipating the reaction that Massie will respond with. "And, apparently he's got this new girlfriend - her name's Nikki Dalton, some sort of 'camp tramp' Dyl is saying - and I was just thinking that it would be good for you, to y'know, catch up with old friends."
Massie keeps a tight smile on her face, trying not to show her inner muddled thoughts, "I'm not sure how many times I have to say this Claire, but I do actually have a boyfriend that I'm fully committed to - wait, how does Dylan know what's happening with Cameron? I thought that the two of them stopped talking after she admitted that she liked him, oh, this is just too complicated, okay? If I go back to the Reunion, I'll have to re-fill my life with all of this nonsensical drama again —"
"Like you don't secretly adore drama; anyway, if you don't go, I'm going — apparently, the gang's coming back, and it'd be nice to see them, see what their lives have ended up to - if Kemp is in jail yet, if Plovert got a Fields medal, if Dylan broke away from her mom —"
She raises her hands up in the air in defense, narrowing her amber eyes. "I'll go, okay? I'll go." Claire returns back to her organic chemistry homework with a triumphant grin on her face; she opens up a Google Docs and highlights the first line, Step 1: Get Massie and Derrick to both go to the Briarwood Octavian Country Day Reunion.
.
"Claire, this isn't a game of Flappy Bird — you can't just restart it every single time. Sooner or later, Flappy's going to die."
Four of the five original members of the Pretty Committee sit circled, legs crossed and exchanging looks of disbelief across the limousine, gazing out of the tinted windows. "Probably because of those humongous lips, y'know; they're so disproportionate from normal birds, and that's probably why he keeps on dying every single time I try making him - is it a him? - between the pipes; just cut off his lips, and he might actually have a chance of surviving past the second pipe—" Massie casts an exasperated look in the direction of Dylan, who immediately stops stalking and tries a somewhat repentant expression upon her face, hiding the way she breaks into a smile now and then. "But, about what's more important — your relationship with Derrick."
Massie sighs. "Look, girls, I really appreciate that you're trying to create some sort of mixed-up love life for me, and maybe this is your version of saying how much you appreciated me as an alpha back in high school, but that's the very thing. That was high school. I have James, now, anyways, so I don't need Derrick Harrington, okay?"
"You don't understand, Massie. You and James have no chemistry, whatsoever — you only met because of blind dates."
"That you and Claire somehow set me up on," Massie interjects, sending pointed glares towards her so-called friends. "Anyway, Derrick and I only met because of the blind date that you set me up on, so I'm not sure how there's any difference between the two, except oh, yeah, James and I are in love, and he didn't break up with you because of a watch."
"You're still not over that? Seriously, Mass, it's been three years since your break-up."
Massie rolls her eyes, "Of course I'm over it." Alicia and Dylan exchange looks of raised eyebrows, as if they don't believe her at all, "If I wasn't over it, would I have just told James to stay in England for the weekend instead of creating some sort of stupid ploy to make my ex-boyfriend jealous? No, of course not; I really don't understand why you guys think that I'm still in love with somebody as childish as Derrick Harrington."
"But you were in love with him—"
"In the past. Two frickin' years ago, Claire. Two years. I'm in love with James now, okay? And there's nothing that you can do to get in the way of our relationship."
.
Massie lets out a somewhat indignant breath and closes her eyes, envisioning the first day of something akin to senior year, before opening them once more; she takes in a breath, more of a gulp to be honest, and takes in the environment that Octavian Country Day has transformed into — a few stray high-schoolers roam around the grassy area which is covered with snow by the Fountain, and a few of the populars stay in the courtyard, posing for late yearbook pictures with their ever so fake smiles and their even faker extensions. The people who are most probably second semester upperclassmen don varsity baggy sweaters that read SENIORS in large purple letters, and frayed denim shorts, ripped near the bottoms, barely show over them; they smile with high spirits, standing up now and then, as though practicing something akin to a senior introductory speech, trudging along with their Kate Spade couture heels, diamond-studded.
She stares down at her own feet, which don somewhat simple looking high-heeled boots and brushes feeble thoughts of insecurity out of her mind — I'm Massie Block, and I'm fabulous, she chants to herself, like a mantra — and focuses instead on the disarray around her, instead of reminiscing of the past that was just that, the past. Massie notices the way that Claire's delicate feet turn red on the edges, awkwardly fitting around a size four (when, she's most obviously a size six, at least) foot size; cherries creep onto the sides of Dylan's mouth, a replacement for lipstick, and she hastily wipes them away, a similar color forming on her cheeks as a natural form of blush; Kristen taps her sneakers (yes, her sneakers) upon the paved charcoal-colored pavement and bites her nail in a manner that is something akin to nervous, and Alicia's nowhere to be seen.
Dylan walks a few steps, and taps Massie on the shoulder, "I'm so sorry to break the news, but James is cheating on you." She drapes an arm around Massie's shoulders in display of sympathy, who only reels back in response, in an obvious state of denial. There's a moment of silence before her amber eyes narrow in an almost scrutinizing manner.
"That's not possible — James isn't like that. He wasn't supposed to be like that. Show me the phone," she commands, raising an eyebrow and yanking the phone away from Dylan's tight grip upon denial. "No offense — actually, yes, this is offense; why in the world would you photoshop a picture of James kissing Olivia? I mean, if you wanted to use your Photoshop skills, at least use one of the girls from Yale that I had sent to you; I'm not even sure where in the world Olivia Ryans is anymore—"
A group of boys enter the parking lot, hollering loudly as though they're from an 80's movie, and jump out from the backseat, the driver departing as soon as the other boys had left the car (probably an unsuspecting, completely obviously parent); one of the boys stands in the center with something akin to a leather jacket draped around his shoulders in the appearance of a cape, and he does one of those weird guy-nods at Claire who immediately blushes in response; Massie only rolls her eyes, and thinks that she's probably overusing those muscles today and might end up with some sort of hemorrhage, but it's worth the risk of bursting of blood vessels. "Claire, you can't honestly be crushing on some guy that's two years younger than us — he's a minor. That would be like one of us having a relationship with your brother."
Claire raises an eyebrow, "That's my brother over there though," she murmurs, and waves a half-hearted one towards him; he immediately turns away, mortified. Todd's something of five feet three inches, at least five inches shorter than the average freshmen at Octavian Country Day, with a mop of red hair and chopped-up bangs, a splash of freckles here and there, electric blue eyes sticking out, nothing more than bones, judging by a quick one-over.
Massie glances at him for a minute, and turns back to Claire with an expression of boredom on her features, "That thing is your brother? He hasn't changed a bit, then. Still stalking upperclassmen girls?"
"He didn't stalk you—"
"Then what do you call putting cameras in my shower, taking my old clothes from boxes in the basement and selling them on Amazon, and basically barging in on all of our sleepovers at the cabana?"
"Whatever."
She lets out a somewhat indignant breath, watching it waft into the misty air; the faint shadow of a computer operated vehicle reflects, barely gleaming from the flickering battery-powered lights which fall down upon lighter objects, causing a fluorescent shade to be formed. There's the sound of pattering footsteps outside and a series of giggles muffled by sweaters and perhaps ancient varsity football jackets, and Massie hears the small click of the door and slides towards the dusty linoleum floor - there's the slightest remnants of jasmine-scented perfume on biology and horticulture worksheets - and thinks that perhaps her so-called best friends can take things to a bit on the extreme level. There's the scuffle of a polished shoe upon the floor, and Massie tilts her head reluctantly only to see a flurry of white and black worksheets fall down towards the floor, and the sound of somebody - most probably, Derrick Harrington - falling on the floor, the slip and the eventual oomph. Massie raises an eyebrow and stands up, pretending not to fumble through the dark though the slightest bit of light seeps in from underneath the door, and the light bulbs above flicker on and off now and then. "Need help?" She asks, her tone sarcastic with the slightest undertone of bitter, extending a hand where she hopes Derrick has landed.
"Thanks for your concern, but I'm fine," he replies, back, his tone even more bitter than her own and Massie thinks that there's something that she's done wrong - of course, because it's always been her fault, never anybody else's when something went horribly and completely wrong - but ignores the thought, and focuses on the door. The slightest bit of hurt brushes over her facial features before Massie wipes them away - being flawed and neurotic isn't perhaps the best way to get herself out of an enclosed space. "Did Cam do this?"
Massie's amber tresses whip in the other direction, something akin to an expression of confusion spreading across her face, trying to hide inner feelings. "What does Cam have to do with this? No offense, but he doesn't seem the type of person who could easily be led to try to lock two random people in a closet, hoping that they'll 'fix themselves'," she declares, somewhat angrily, pacing a few steps forward and stopping at the enclosement of the wall.
"Well, maybe Cameron Fisher isn't the golden boy that you think that he is―"
"I never said that he was a golden boy. I just said that I didn't expect him to change into the type of person; wait, is this because of Nikki? Is she forcing him to do this?" Massie doesn't know too much about the 'camp tramp', or such the term that Alicia had denoted for the newcomer into their social circle — to be honest, she had heard the name before when Cameron had mentioned his so-called summer experiences, and how it had been a better summer than most due to the new friends he had made, but it felt as though a new person would only mess things up even more than they were already messed up.
"Why do you care so much about Cameron Fisher anyway?" It's meant to be a simple question, something nonchalant of the like, but Derrick lets a bit of hurt seep out of his words, and Massie tries her best to ignore it.
"I don't care about who he's with - it's not like that. I just . . . think that he should be with somebody who's good for him." It's the truth, Massie thinks to herself — she had known Cameron Fisher for what eighteen, nineteen years of their life, and their families had been interconnected throughout the ages dating back to the first European settlers, and she knew that he was probably the nicest guy she had ever known, and perhaps he had gotten a little boring and predictable from time to time, but he was always dependable. That much she could count on.
"Like you?" Derrick retorts, looking her directly in the eye; she immediately avoids his case, and later thinks that that probably wasn't the best action to give, but she couldn't help herself — if Massie wasn't able to face her issues and beat them down with her superior intellect and prepared insults, then she would avoid them for the most part.
"What's wrong with you guys? Cameron and I had a history, but that's what it is ― history, it's in the past, and this is the future, and all of us had changed."
"The past always catches up with the future," he says, in a way that's almost mysterious.
Massie rolls her eyes in response. "I don't really care about what he's up to, Derrick. I just know that he's a good guy, and he deserves somebody good. Anyways, we need to find a way to get out of this closet before the Reunion's over and I've missed my flight."
He nervously scratches the back of his hand, "Well, actually, I was the one who asked them to lock the door."
She turns towards him with some sort of expression of fury emblazoned in her amber eyes, but takes a deep breath and tries not to let herself fall into habits of flying frenzies. "What do you mean you were the one who locked us in the closet? It was Claire and Dylan and Kris and Kemp and Plovert and everybody else ― don't pretend as though you wanted this to happen," she says, frantically, motioning the situation between them.
He closes the proximity between them (which isn't too hard to in the small space of a closet) and takes a deep breath. "I wanted to catch up, y'know, for old times sake."
"And you couldn't have done that out there?" She asks, angrily; Massie stands up, annoyed at the proximity between them, annoyed at the fact that Derrick Harrington isn't the predictable person that she assumed that he would always end up being, and people changing and her staying the same is yet another problem that she's have to deal with, in the far future, of course.
"You would have avoided me."
"I wouldn't have! I've changed, y'know, and I would have exchanged pleasantries with you, as I will if you just send a text to your stupid friends―"
"Our stupid friends," he corrects. Of course, Massie thinks to herself, he had to remind her that the only reason why they started dating in the first place was because of their intertwined co-ed social circle.
"Whatever; just send a text to them so that they'll open the lock!"
"Yeah, uh, about that ― they broke the lock on the door, so they might take a while, maybe a few hours or so?" Derrick backs up against the wall, as if expecting a punch from the furious girl in front of him. Instead, she just takes a deep breath and resists the urge to break his nose, and slumps against the wall, sort of done with all of this. "What's wrong? Uh, I'm sorry about bringing up your past with Cam. I thought that you wanted a Prince Charming," Derrick murmurs, brushing a stray piece of chestnut curl from her face; she resists the urge to flinch in response to the action, and pulls back, slightly frightened by the intimacy between them because if she lets herself really think about it, then feelings might rise to the surface and she'll fall back into old habits. She's waited for over three years to feel good enough again, and Massie won't let herself get sucked back into the darkness of always having to prove herself to a boy.
She sighs, "You weren't supposed to be like that — you were never my Prince Charming. When I was younger, I used to have these scrapbooks wherein I would plan out the rest of my life; which college I would be accepted into, based solely on merit instead of daddy's donations, who I would marry, and whether the wedding gift would be an unlimited supply of Kate Spade heels or Tiffany diamonds; Cam was my Prince Charming."
"I see how it is," he responds after a moment, trying not to let the hurt seep out of his words, because as much as the two of them would ever try to defy the truth, it's the bitter truth — Massie had always been a bit of an ice queen, the type of person who would identify weaknesses within five minutes of meeting them, and the best ways to exploit their supposed weaknesses, and there were no exceptions to the rule, much less the boy who was never good enough for her, the boy was never good enough for her. "Well, Cam's outside, so—"
Derrick makes a move to knock down the door or something desperate like that, and Massie thinks that it could just be this easy — he could leave, and they wouldn't ever see one another again, and for the rest of his life, he would always know a lie, and she thinks that she almost owes it to him to at least tell him the truth. "No, you don't understand — Cam was my prince charming. I tried so hard to be the perfect little girl that my parents wanted, the girl that Cam could be with, the perfect little princess, but I was never Cinderella. That cliché sort of character was Claire's job, anyways," she admits, trying to pass off the words as casual.
He casts an unusual glare at her, and she flinches from the intensity, this time taking a step back after a few minutes of silence, and banging her head on the projector behind. A nostalgic feeling indulges its' self upon the two of them, giving a feeling that this should have happened perhaps for a long time prior. There's only a few inches between them, and she thinks that she should probably bang on the door or maybe just climb through the vent and perhaps risk death but Massie follows her heart just for a moment, and she presses her lips quickly to his; it's almost as though her ice façade melts into his innocent warmth — there's the slight scent of jasmine and Indian spices in the air, along with cobwebs in the corner which have long been destroyed by age and time, time which all moves too fast. Massie feels the world around her disappear, and her thoughts dissipate from people like James and conforming to society's beliefs and an overwhelming sense of tranquility rushes over her.
She withdraws a few moments later, avoiding the intensity of Derrick's gaze yet again, instead slumping against the ceramic-feeling wall, feeling something akin to defeat in the center of her heart and thinks that this wasn't meant to happen, but it did, and maybe she'll be able to leave here and perhaps forget about everything that even happened in the Reunion, and of course, they'll both be able to forget about what happened here and move on with their lives, maybe just conform to society's stereotypes of what their lives will end up like.
Massie then makes a fatal mistake and locks eyes with Derrick's chocolate ones; she blinks and he's looking at her as if she's the only girl in the world and all that she can think is that maybe she still likes him.
.
"Shut up — just shut up," Alicia says, her expression something akin to disbelief. The two of them sit in the inner courtyard, staring out of the windows in the canteen and glancing at the way that the snow falls down onto the grass; their classmates stamp upon the snow, crushing the beauty and turning into nothing more than a pile of mush — Massie just thinks that if she can focus her attention on anything else but her brushing of the lips with Derrick Harrington a few minutes ago, it'll be perfect.
"Does this make a me a slut?"
"Please; Massie Block could never be qualified as something as common than that. Anyway, so when did you get over your acclaimed love for James? Yeah, that's right, Claire filled me in on all the details that you never told me about. What happened to staying in contact, anyway?"
"It's not that I didn't try, Leesh - I did, but it just got harder and harder to keep up a long-distance friendship, if you know what I mean?"
"Like yours and James' so-called 'long-distance relationship'?"
"It's not really a long distance relationship if you think about it — I mean he just visits family in England now and then, but that's because his grandmother got diagnosed with Stage Four cancer, so it makes sense, really; wait, what are you trying to imply? Are you trying to imply that just because our friendship didn't really support itself, that James and I are going to break up?" She speaks in a rambling, hurried tone and Massie swears that Derrick Harrington just can't be the right guy for her if he makes her this nervous and flustered — everybody always had told her that once you found the right person, love would be easy, but everything with Derrick was anything but easy.
Alicia raises her hands in defense, "You did that all on your own. You're the one who allegedly snogged Derrick Harrington, not me; I mean, we all knew that somebody was going to cheat in the relationship, but none of us thought that it would be you—"
"What should I do, though?" She wrings her hands, almost nervously, her tone nerve-wracking; Massie thinks that the last time she had been this nervous was when her parents had notified her that the Block family was officially broke, but those sort of problems were fixed within a year of careful investments of the stock market. This situation couldn't possibly be repaired.
"How am I supposed to know?"
Massie raises an eyebrow, "You're the one with all the relationship experience, at least back in high school — besides Kris, you were one of the only people that we could rely on, and Kris was 'one of the guys' so that was completely different. You knew the inner workings of guys' minds back then, so I'm hoping that you still know how they think now?"
"College guys are completely different than high school guys," Alicia says in a matter of fact tone. "I mean, college guys are more mature and intelligent if you're into that sort of thing, but high school guys love with their eyes and not with their hearts, simple infatuations based on lust and not love, for the most part, at least, but then again, you didn't know James when he was in high school. For all you know, he could have been another Kemp — college changes people, in more ways than one. I mean, Derrick and you have a history, and he's still the same sweet guy that he was back in high school."
"I swear, you probably like him more than I do - I mean, did."
Alicia wrinkles her ski-slope styled nose in disgust, "That's just gross; I mean, Derrick's sort of cute if you think about and all of us had a crush on him back in middle school, but he's too innocent; if I ever was in a relationship with him, I feel as though I would be exploiting him, if you know what I mean?"
"I have no idea what you're even talking about, Leesh. Then again, I think that I know what I'm going to do," she says, mostly to herself, as though the more she repeats the last statement, the more she'll be affirmed in her decision; there's no going back from what Massie's going to do now, and she just hopes that it'll turn out for the best.
(There's the pounding of footsteps, and the alarms go off just then, and Massie thinks that this day couldn't possibly get any worse, so it does.)
.
IV. MORS
The four of them situate themselves in a cluster, bodies close to one another and breathing heavily as the pattering footsteps of children running are heard on the outside playground, drowned out by the beating of their hearts. "He's coming for us," Alicia murmurs, the slightest undertone of panic seeping through her otherwise callous tone of voice.
"Why us?" Claire murmurs; her cherubic features are reflected by an increasingly high pitched voice, as though nothing has changed despite it being two years since the high school graduation. "We didn't do anything wrong." And it's not as though the people who commit the sins are the ones who are killed, Massie thinks to herself, pinching and twisting a piece of skin upon her hand sharply to the left, anything to take her mind off of the current situation that had befallen the reunion; there's heavy breathing next to her, and the tapping of a high-heeled boot upon linoleum floors, and footsteps in the hallways.
Massie sends an elbow into Claire's torso who only responds with a quiet why'd you do that in a way that could be perceived as innocent without the sharp punch to the shoulder that followed; in response, Massie only rolls her eyes, "Claire, if you've learned anything after living on college campus for what two-and-a-half years, you've had to have learned that in case of a robbery or something like that, the best way to save your own life is to just shut up and stop moving so that the criminal doesn't hear you. It's for your own good, really." And for ours, she silently adds in her mind, afterwards.
Derrick remains silent, eyes slightly glazed over as he stares into the distance, sort of in an ominously quiet way, and Massie doesn't make a move to interrupt the silence - the footsteps echo down the narrow, twisted hallways of Octavian Country Day and as she hears the petrified high-pitched screams echoing throughout the cavernous corridors, the eventual slumping of bodies down upon the floor, and the inevitable pandemonium, she only thinks that what had been her high school, had never been so small; the footsteps echo down the hallway of the canteen, and Massie tightens her grip around Derrick's hand and thinks that this might be the end - this might be the end of everything, the life that she's always known. It's almost stupid and foolish to think that there's a way out of this situation (because there really isn't), but in times of desperation, people do stupid and foolish things.
She's already planned out the seven various exit plans - secret passageways and the like have been dismantled due to new rooms being created after the Mundelein Sports Drink had started being a sports sponsor at Octavian; the room on the lower floor which led towards a secret passageway which linked the school with Briarwood had crashed down years ago, reduced to nothing more than ashes and chipped pieces of ceiling, stray flakes of whitened paint, yellowing. Massie peers into the classroom next door, and for a small moment, she reminisces about the past — she can see herself in a classroom, sitting near the center and middle, legs propped upon the polished desks, lounging back in her seat as though she doesn't have a care in the world, but of course, that wouldn't be her. Massie Block would have to be the girl sitting in the front row of the class, legs primly crossed in a fashion that could be considered as dainty, her buttoned-up uniform top pulled up the collarbone, not a bit of skin being revealed from her neck to her ankles which connected to black and white Mary Janes, because that's who she was, 'little-miss-perfect'. Massie stares down at her feet and thinks that she might as well be going to hell with the rest of the sinners, now.
.
The footsteps echo down the hallways, and Alicia murmurs, "Isn't it the slightest bit ridiculous that we're just waiting here, waiting for the allegedly insane gunman to come out from the shadows, and kill us? We can't just sit here, waiting for our impending deaths; the closer the footsteps get, he is the harbinger of our deaths."
There's the shadow of a gun in the doorway, a few last moments of preparation before the inevitable crash occurs — the procured gun is smashed through the windows and the figure in black jumps through, a look of desperation on his face, hardened by cold features; she grips her friend's hands tightly because this is the end, this is really the end, and Massie would never have a chance to say good-bye, but maybe that was okay. She wouldn't be sure what to even say, and she'd traveled throughout the world — to gilded lights in Paris, to cavernous castles throughout England, forbidden cities and culture in China, dancing in the rain in India (at night, when nobody was watching — and she's seen enough for a lifetime, too.
Derrick grips onto her hand and for somebody who had never taken a wrong step, he leaps in front of her, legs outstretched; there's the sound like somebody biting an apple and the bullet flies cleanly into his torso as he falls backwards upon the ground, his head numbly landing upon the glossy linoleum floor. "You always wanted a Prince Charming."
"I didn't need you to save me," Massie murmurs, wiping in furious attempts the back of her hand on her cheeks as she hesitantly touches the gunshot wound on Derrick's torso. "I can take care of myself." She tells herself to stop crying because there isn't much time left, and every second goes by quicker — it'll fly away from her grasp until all the time is over, and Massie doesn't want to see that happen.
She sort of expects Claire to burst into tears, some sort of rain showers of the like, or for Alicia to callously comment about how this is what happens when romantic connections are formed and how Massie should have just detached herself from such silly, simple emotions, and she doesn't let the numbness show when she regards them out of the corner of her eye, pale faces and drawn out breath, fidgeting with their cellphones. Massie's own fingers tremble in an uncomfortable way, and she quickly presses 9-1-1 as if her life depends on it (which it does, because she's not sure what her life is going to be after today if Derrick doesn't survive), and takes a deep breath, clenching his hand tightly.
"We're going to make it through this—" I'm going to make it through this, she thinks to herself.
"I'm dying, Mass," he mutters, weakly; she can already see the life fading away from him, his pallid face extrinsic, his inner wounds devastating, and this can't be the way for Derrick to die — it's just not fair.
"Don't say that," she reprimands, sharply, tightening her spare sweater around his wound, and fingers the blood cautiously, hopes darkening as she sees the depth and the impact of the gunshot; Massie looks back at up at where the gunman had stood moments prior, but was replaced with nothing but the still air. "You're not going to die, okay? You can't die on me, Derrick Harrington — all my life, you've always been there for me when I needed, and it's my fault for just realizing that, but you're not going to die on me, okay? You just can't do that," she mumbles out, words incomprehensible as the tears flow despite Massie trying to pull herself together.
.
She sits next to him, despite the frantic requests of the ER staff, on the drive to the New York Prebysterian University Hospital, holds his weak hands, and thinks that this isn't how the story is supposed to go — then again, Massie had never been the princess, Derrick had never been the Prince Charming; they had been the villains of their own story, and the villains were meant to die.
.
She walks over, quick and lunging steps to the couple who sits in the waiting room outside of the ER department upon noticing the diamond rings that glisten upon both of their ring fingers, and closes her eyes to wipe away any sign of weakness, "I'm sorry, but could I borrow your rings?" There's a look of confusion, perhaps something akin to suspicion on their faces, and she continues, "My uh, boyfriend—" she's not sure what Derrick is to her, but he's most definitely not just a friend anymore, "—got shot, and uh, he's not going to make it, and we were going to get married in the really far future, but we can't now, uh."
They nod slowly, looking at her as though she's some sort of tragic heroine when Massie's nothing but a lost little girl trying to find where she belongs, faking it until she makes it, and pass over the rings, tears forming in their eyes as if they care, and maybe they do. She walks quickly, forcing herself into a sprint and quickly discarding the high-heeled black boots which slow her down, into the ICU ward, and presses Derrick's fingers, which had turned noticeably colder in the past two minutes or so, to her own. "I got the rings," she says, smiling. "And uh, Alicia's dad is a lawyer—" He presses his lips to her quickly, and she finds herself smiling despite the situation, "Y'know, you're not supposed to do that until after the marriage, Harrington."
"I know," he says, voice ominously low, as if it's already fading. "But I just wanted to do it know, if I don't have the chance to do it again."
(His voice fades, slowly, and a few desperate last heartbeats before a flatline.)
.
(There's a moment of silence that echoes throughout the room —
Massie walks out, click-clack, her frozen fingers numb. She walks through Central Park, to the coast of the Brighton Beach — the facility has long been closed due to the winter, yet the water laps upon the surface now and then; she stands at the edge of the water, discarding her Kate Spade heels, and lets the frigid waves numb her ankles, a tingling through her slender spine. Derrick and her had played in the frigid water every weekend as forlorn teenagers falling in love; she had always sat on the beach, tanning, while he had jumped into the waves, fearless, sometimes dragging her down with him, splashing in the waves, and sometimes, she had thought that without doubt, perhaps one day watch their own children do the same.
V. FINALE
When she was younger, Massie used to curl up into a ball, perhaps complain on her online State of the Union when problems arose — now, she sits in her all too white bathroom, sitting on the counter with a laptop on her lap, perched upon the fragile surroundings; her constantly thinning hair is brushed back into a quick fishtail braid which dangles by her side, and she just lies on her bathroom floor for a while, until her pale face is almost as white as the bathroom tiling. An e-mail notification pops up in her browser, and Massie ignores the familiar sound — she knows what it's going to be.
The Funeral Service of Derrick Charles Harrington, 1994-2013; and it'll be all too Westchurian for her own tastes. Perhaps her mother will demand that she stop by the service of a childhood friend, oblivious to the entirety of the situation around them, saying something like, he'll have wanted you to be there but it's not the truth and she'd just rather not break down in public. It's not worth it, anymore; so, she places a fake expression of tranquility upon her features and resolves to never let anybody to see her cry again.
Seven years later, Massie Block dons a shiny diamond engagement ring, and smiles to all of her so-called friends who fawn over the expensive trinket, and as her lips are pressed to James' to complete the marriage, Derrick Harrington's face doesn't pop up in her mind anymore, and she thinks that maybe that's a good thing.
.
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