she keeps walkin' away

prompts:colored pencils, Geometry, the play Julius Caesar, and "emotions intermingle with dusk"

It all started in geometry class when Ms. Bee was discussing planes and shapes. Apparently she thought we were stupid because she spoke at a .2 words per minute pace about how planes were never-ending. (So was your class, Ms. Bee.)

It was my sophomore year and you have never been in one of my classes before. I don't even think we've spoken before to be quite literally honest. I just know I've stared at you with wide-eyes and all-but drooled as you'd flick your shoulder-length hair and I'd stare a little too long. (Derrick's right, I am thinking like a girl.)

Ms. Bee asked us to put our names in a hat and we'd pick them out to decide who our term-project-partner would be. Naturally, I begged to the partner-Gods for you to become my partner.

I've heard you were a little loopy (crazy, control-freak) but sometimes when you didn't think anyone is watching: I saw the way your smile kind of fell and your eyes grew tired and dull. (They're a little freaky, considering they're a copper-color- more so rusted metal, but I think amber sounds better than rusted metal…Please don't take offense.)

I don't know why I keep hoping you'll gaze at me (even by accident) but there's something that tells me that, cliché as it is, you're not like most girls.

-;-

This can become a Quest: Win the heart of ice-queen yourself: Massie Block.

"Hotz? You're with Claire Lyons," (Damnit.)

"Massie, you're with Derrick Harrington."

I don't think the disappointment could be any stronger than it was then. (Et-tu Brutus? Derrick, you know I am crazy about this girl. Don't become like that Brutus dude from Julius Caesar—speaking of Caesar, it makes me want some food.)

"No way, Ms. Bee," you snapped in a somewhat polite manner, "I refuse to be partnered with someone that finds it socially acceptable to rip off his pants after saving some balls."

The class cracked up while Derrick's bravado wavered like a flag.

"Massie—"

"It's okay, Ms. Bee," Derrick retorted with an eye-roll, "I'm sure Hotz over here will switch with me."

(It's fate!)

"Derrick—"

"That's a great idea," you nodded enthusiastically. Claire looked uncomfortable while she shifted in her seat, wordless as usual.

Ms. Bee blew a hair out of her eyes, immediately defeated, "Fine."

Just as I was about to internally do my victory-dance, you turned to Ms. Bee with a frown, "Wait, who's Hotz?"

Here's the cue where I start blushing profusely because after pining over you, the ice-queen, boss and diss all your fellow peers since 2nd grade, it's a little embarrassing for you not to know who I am even though we were in the same kindergarten class. (What Massie? You don't remember doodling random scribbles on white pieces of paper with the varied Crayola colored pencils?)

"Oh he's that boy right over near the Smart-Board," Ms. Bee pointed to me and I think my cheeks were even more pink when your flighty gaze flew right over me.

"That one?"

"No—him." She pointed and I just about died. (Are you blind, Massie? I'm prince-charming…)

"Oh," was your response. (An 'oh.' That's all you have to say?)

Once class was dismissed, you turned with a blank expression. "Be at my house at 8:00pm tonight, don't be late. My address is in the phonebook or I'm sure you could probably just find it on the internet, so whatever." Then you turned on your heels with your cronies trailing your flanks.

(Damn.)

-;-

"I'm sorry I have to drop you off so early, honey," my mom said for the third time on the car-ride over. "But I really can't be late for this meeting. Call me when you need a ride home and tell Kendra and William I said hello." (Great, even my mom was on a first name basis with the Blocks.)

"Thanks," I stalled in the car for a moment, "Bye."

I hated being early. It was always so unexpected and awkwardly uncomfortable. I rang the doorbell after a few well-needed breaths.

A middle-aged woman answered the door and I knew straight off the bat that it wasn't Massie's mother.

"Who are you?"

"Massie's, er, friend," (Could I even say that?)

"Miss Block is upstairs, first door on the right," the maid told me tonelessly, her accent was kind of cool; all French and stuff.

"Thanks," I wandered a little aimlessly towards the eloquent staircase. Massie's house could not be considered a house, more like a mansion. The ceilings were so high, I had to tilt my head up all the way so I could see the top of the ceilings and the staircase had a velvety red carpet that I assumed were convenient for the Block Benefit entrances.

I counted each step (forty-two, in case you were wondering) and each step I took, I think I was stepping closer to another heart-attack. I was beyond just nervous; it was terribly embarrassing.

I don't know why I didn't think to knock, but I didn't. You were sitting perched at your desk, typing away on a MacBook laptop with headphones in your ears. Red Hot Chili Peppers were humming loudly from your ear-buds, there was the click-clack of your laptop keyboard and the only other noise was you humming along to the music. (Is it creepy to say you looked serene? And to admit Red Hot Chili Peppers were fanfuckingtastic?)

I didn't mean to kind-of-sort-of-maybe creep. But I guess I have soft-footing or something because your carpet was plush and therefor, allowed me to walk soundlessly. With each step I took, I was tempted to projectile all over your purple carpet.

I was about to open my mouth and say hey, but I couldn't help but reading over your shoulder. You were typing on Microsoft Word, and when I say typing, I mean your fingers were flying across the keyboard.

"Emotions intermingle with dusk," she whispered, tears coating her coal-black lashes. He—

"Holy cow," you jumped from your seat in utter surprise and I was reduced to a crimson color.

"I'm sorry to scare you," my words were jumbled and caught in my throat. (Nervous didn't even compare to the way I was feeling.)

Your guard was down, I could tell. You wore very little eye-makeup and you were in sweats. (You've never looked so simple, beautiful, and human.)

"You weren't supposed to come until 8:00pm," you stated breathlessly.

"I know, but I had to come earlier because of my ride. I hope that's not a huge problem…"

You shook your head slowly, "it's okay."

The silence was unbearably awkward.

"So what song were you, uh, jamming to?" (Thank god my voice didn't crack.)

To my utter surprise, you blushed a little, "Scar Tissue by—"

"Red Hot Chili Peppers," I nodded, trying to hide a smirk, "they're good."

"You like them too?" (You had a very nice smile.)

"I love them," I admitted sheepishly. Your smile matched mine and we both chuckled awkwardly. (I wish I could've said it wasn't awkward, but let's face it: it was awkward.)

Something glowed in your eyes because you suddenly went from a black and white cartoon to a colorful cartoon.

"I love The Other Side and I love their new song The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie," you gushed with such sincerity that I grinned.

We talked for fifteen minutes straight about how amazing Red Hot Chili Peppers were; fifteen minutes of my life I'll cherish for a long time.

"Anyway," you cleared your throat, "let's start the project."

Truthfully, I didn't care for the project at all but if it meant I got to spend a whole two hours with Massie Block, I would take another project under my wing.

-;-

It was innocent and probably would always be considered platonic. But after weeks of jamming to bands we favored, discussing how black and white weren't opposites, and sharing pretty damn dark secrets, I came to the conclusion that you, Massie Block, turned out to be more than anything I would ever expect.

Tonight we were lying under a 'blanket of stars' (as you like to quote like the writer you're aspiring to be) and sipping freshly brewed hot chocolate with the big marshmallows.

"Blue," I answered, "Why do you want to become a writer?"

You smiled softly and easily, "I don't know… there's something about being able to paint a picture out of words that makes it so incredible."

(Shallow? Yeah right. You are far from shallow.)

"You know we should probably be doing our project…" I trailed off with a saccharine smile.

"Yeah," you answered briskly, "but this is so much better than Geometry."

"Yeah," I said like your personal echo.

-;-

"What's your number one secret?" You asked me so casually I practically choked on the hot chocolate I was sipping.

I stammered, "I'm not sure."

You narrowed your eyes, "I don't believe you."

I cleared my throat and said, "I'll tell you when I don't think I can keep it a secret anymore."

"Fine," you blew hair out of your face and I temporarily wished I could tuck those stray hairs behind your ears.

-;-

Things were great, better than great, better than amazing, better than any positive adjective in the English Dictionary. (Nothing could really describe the way I was feeling.)

But like the good-old famous Geoffrey Chaucer said: All good things must come to an end. (You told me that randomly.)

Things kind of faded sort of like your presence.

"I can't tonight,"

"I'm hanging out with the girls."

"I've got so much homework…"

And soon, you just stopped replying to my texts and ignoring my calls.

The hallways were empty because classes were in session; it was the perfect time to catch you slamming stuff back into your locker. Just as you were finished stuffing your bio textbook back on its shelf, I tapped your shoulder.

You jumped, similar to the way you did when we first met up. I rattled your bones.

"I thought we were done with the surprises," you calmly said. (That's all you had to say to me? After ignoring me since the project was over?)

"Sorry," I didn't mean it.

"Okay," you folded your arms over your chest.

Blatant and blunt kept things simple with you: "Why are you ignoring me?"

Your eyes kind of dazed for a moment, a flicker of sadness and a teaspoon of regret, but then it disappeared into a haze of blank, flat emotionlessness. "I don't think we should be friends anymore."

It wasn't an offer or a choice, simply a statement. A statement meant things weren't contradictable and they definitely weren't meant to be defied when you spoke them. (You just about kicked me in the guts.)

"Why? What'd I do wrong?" I tried to keep my cool. (You said you hated when guys got emotional.)

"Nothing," you smoothed out your skirt nonchalantly, (as if it were the most normal and ordinary thing to end friendships as good as ours,) "but I really don't think it'll ever work out between us."

I tried not to grow angry. "What do you mean?"

"I like you, yeah," you sighed impatiently, "But it'll never work out between us. So let's pretend none of this ever happened, okay?"

Your words tasted (bitter.)

"Fine,"

"I'm glad you understand," you tossed your hair back over your shoulder and strutted away—and for once, it actually felt like none of the words we've said, or the secrets we've shared, or the time we've spent together—never happened.

-;-

So this is where we stand now; the end of our senior year and the forgotten friendship. I guess I am not a firm believer of fate—fate didn't want us to work out.

Its graduation day and you stride past me left and right. Sometimes we lock eyes but you quickly look away and feign nonchalance.

"Congratulations Class of 2014!"

I pull you aside and with a deep breath, I tell you my number one secret.

"I love you."

-:-

For Back-To-School Exchange.

Dedicated to the infamous Livvy (Entwined leather) This has been fun, I'm sorry this sucked so badly but I tried.

-another moment gone-