marred colors of my heart
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the word cliché never popped into your mind before. (because after all, the only things that circled your brain was: xbox, food, girls, soccer. not necessarily in that order.)
you don't sit and watch chick flicks, even with your latest girlfriends. (your friends used to be that way too, until some curse struck them in the balls because now they're tied down and the plural word of girlfriend is now down the drain. what ever happened to, play the field?)
it's your big day, you're standing anxiously under the big white net, digging your cleats into the moist grass beneath you (against your coach's wishes) and occasionally glancing at the stands. "look at massie block," kemp (school's biggest pervert) boasts while licking his lips appreciatively. josh nods his mop of brown hair in agreement.
you don't bother responding because now that everyone's staring into the crowd, your eyes landed on this peculiar blonde girl with short crooked bangs. (massie, who?)
"i heard she likes you," cam mumbles, his hands useless without a pocket to dig into. (always the sensitive one,)
"she told me already," you say casually, stretching your calf muscle.
the silence is awkward. (but when isn't it?)
"—what?" you ask after all the boys glance at you with disbelief in their eyes.
"massie freaking block asked you out?" plovert sputters with shock laced in his voice.
kemp high-fives your back (a little too hard) and once again turns his gaze towards the bleachers. the five girls sat cross legged, scarves wrapped tightly and neatly, hair shiny and lips reflective.
they looked like plastic dolls. (with the smallest of exceptions, the blonde didn't look too perfect. she wasn't as dolled up, her hair was messy, she was wearing keds and she was munching hungrily on a hot dog.)
"who's the blonde?" you ask inconspicuously, addressing cam with your "puppy-like" eyes.
"a girl," cam replies, glancing at coach. "why?"
"nothing,"
you, derrick Harrington, see the color yellow when you gaze into the crowd and zero innocently on the blonde girl with crooked bangs and out-of-fashion (so you've heard,) keds.
-:-
she runs (literally/physically) into you on lethargic monday in the parking lot. she blushes, speedily picks up your books that scattered all over the parking lot, and apologizes. she looks like she's been crying.
"i'm sorry," she whispers, her blue (they're fucking huge) eyes watering.
"it's okay," you assure her. (don't stare,)
she scampers away in ridiculous high-heels and you begin to uselessly wonder where the keds went.
you inhale blue as she disappears.
-:-
you get her screen name for IM the next day (sort of stalking her in the parking lot… but it was because you needed to assure everything was chill, that's what you tell yourself, anyway)
you have never once been this hesitant in your life.
your hands hover over the keyboard and sweat might as well roll down from your forehead; (get over it, D, she's just a girl.)
dharrington: hey claire, it's derrick.
you (anxiously) waited for her to type… maybe she's idle… maybe she hates you…
clairebear is typing…
(yes!)
clairebear: hey, im rlly srry bout yesterday
right as you were about to ask her to hang out, (via IM) cam calls you. unwillingly, you pick up your phone.
"yo bro," cam's voice grumbles.
"what's up?" you ask, trying to conceal the irritation in your voice.
"i was thinking of asking claire out tomorrow," he says casually, confidence in his tone. "i've been sending her some mix-CDS and she really seems to enjoy them, dude. her little bro, todd? well he delivers them and massie tells me she really likes them."
(fuck you cam.)
"we could double," he exclaims.
if he could see you, he'd see you (a very insensitive, douchebag; said by many of your victims) scrunching your eyebrows and cocking your head in a confused manner.
he didn't need to see you though, "massie and you, and claire and me."
"oh," was all you could come up with. after rushed words and jumbled excuses, you hang up with red in your eyes.
clairebear: yt?
dharrington: yah srry, cam called me
clairebear is typing…
clairebear: speaking of him, does he lyke any1?
you wanted to slam your head against the thin keys.
clairebear: jw
you hesitated for another ten seconds. (hesitating again? this habit is becoming bad.)
clairebear: secret for a secret?
dharrington: fine
clairebear: massie likes you
dharrington: ik.
clairebear: u gonna ask her out? it'd make her very happy
dharrington: maybe.
(what the hell, d-man?)
clairebear: that'd b cool if u did. we cud double; if he likes me
now you (REALLY) wanted t slam your face against the keys.
clairebear: (cam) don't tell!
dharrington: i wont. g2g
(of course you didn't have to go, of course you didn't want to go; but of course your best friend liked the blonde girl who you have been foolishly thinking about mindlessly.)
red burns hot under your skin.
-:-
they sat with their glazed eyes, her robin-blue eyes staring into his freakish one blue and one green eyes. their hands intertwined, her petite fragile hands wrapped in his.
"perfection," kristen claims with a dreamy sigh.
(sigh, indeed.)
she glances your way as you vacantly place an arm around the petite bossy brunette next to you. infamous massie block shines her pearly white teeth in your direction as claire lyons locks her cornflower blues with yours. (the heat of your blush is degrading.)
"aw you're blushing," massie whispers excitedly, her eagerness practically radiating off of her.
(this is degrading as well.)
"no i'm not," you insist, hoping claire didn't catch her words.
"of course," massie winks and you swear on your mere short thirteen years of life that claire lyons was a heartbreaker because she locked eyes with you as she leaned over and kissed cam fisher's cheek.
(she plays you well,)
you taste the bitter green on your tongue.
-:-
(claire lyons strings you like a puppet.)
-:-
"what's your favorite color?" massie asks you one autumn morning, her big freakishly-weird-shaded eyes gazing up at your face. she's leaning against you, her head on your shoulder, her (barely there) heart on her designer sleeve.
you contemplate the colors in your mind, a swirl of confusion.
"mine is purple," she adds, "but what about you?"
you think over the countless kisses claire's shared with cam, the countless nothings you've shared with massie. you indulge the taste but spit out the feelings.
claire lyons loves cam fisher, therefor, you must love massie block. (enough to make her smile at you with approval and nervousness tainted in her usually-overly-confident voice.)
"purple," (yellow.)
-:-
review maybe?
even if it (sucked.)
-another moment gone-