notes | i don't really ship dylanderrick not at all, but i'm trying something new here;
we were never here
dylanderrick
.
It is, perhaps, a fine morning in the minds of those most optimistic, who believe that the gloomiest of days can be turned into the most beautiful, but obviously, you are not one of those people who can ever bring yourself to think that any situation could be considered nice, no matter of the events taking place. It is until you becomes the age of ten, that your life turns out successfully: your parents and older sister seems to love you, and the public absolutely adores you.
(You know those girls, the ones that all the boys would love to date and all the girls want to be? When you're walking down the halls, and are pushed grimly to the side with saccharine smiles and flashy comebacks, anger forming in the corner of their sparkling eyes, you might catch a glimpse of the real the, just waiting there, because after all, secrets are meant to be told. They'll randomly appear when you're talking to that latest crush of yours, the one with the floppy black hair and mismatched green and blue eyes, stealing him away with a flirty wave and a coy wink, sometimes even just an interested glance. Every neighborhood has those girls —in Westchester, they're known as the Pretty Committee.)
It's a reputation - not the perfect one, nonetheless, and now that you're finally part of the pretty committee, you think that your life is going to be picture perfect, almost like the life of somebody who lives in a fairytale; but darling, stop taking things for granted.
.
You are trying to help lift a heavy bag.
Jamie, your younger sister, is sitting in the car, being in the midst of a three day fast, and yells at you when your mother is not in sight to go help her lift the bag into the trunk. Obviously, you must listen, and lift the bag much to your mother's protests; you end up making your mother spill her money and drop the fifty bag pound on your right toe, but your mother still adores her, and tells you to stop being and acting like such a baby.
As soon as you reach home, you are forced to play piano, but you bang your long fingers into the ivory nonetheless, as if the keys can absorb your pain, leaving you empty. It is a short piece, Fantasy, by Mozart, yet you play the fortes with such fervor that the following week that your private instructor says that you're almost as good as Jamie, who is seven years younger than you. No matter how much you try, it seems as though you are never good enough - no matter how hard you try, your parents will still always prefer Jamie and Ryan and Massie and Alicia and every single other person in the world better than you.
Sometimes, you wonder what would happen if you just left - it's possible, in fact. There isn't that much security around the mansion, and the guards are mostly to keep random individuals from entering the gated mansion; therefore, slipping out the window (just like Anne in Roman Holiday) might not be as difficult as it might seem to be; wouldn't it be easier, then? To escape everything - it would most definitely be easier upon your family.
They could care less about Dylan Marvil - just a waste of space and time.
Nevertheless, you stay because you can't help but think that maybe somebody will eventually care for you - somebody will think that you're not a waste of space and time, and tell you that; though it's almost impossible to think of such things, you imagine your life to be like those in classic movies, where everything goes right in the end and the fairytales do come true - then again, this is reality, and there's no such things as fairytales, no such thing as magic.
You stay because you have friends - who someday, might just be your family for the meantime, because perhaps, they're the only ones that truly understand you, and maybe, just maybe, they'll be enough to keep you here — maybe.
.
It's on a cold Tuesday that you first meet him - of course, it's in the typical way.
You're sitting in the center lunch table with the rest of the pretty committee, exchanging rumors about so and so, and talking about this new girl at school and how much the four of you are going to torture her, until she cries as much as that girl from Florida and finally leaves, and then how about there's this new party and blah and blah are going together - they finally got together, apparently - and it's all the same.
Swirling around a faint sort of green liquid, you delicately sip a few drops and suddenly have the sudden urge to rid the liquid from your system; you excuse yourself to the bathroom and accidentally spit it out in the sink, a public one of course, where people are watching - perhaps the first mistake that you make, but then walk outside with all the confidence in the world. You walk back to the lunch table and finger a salty soft pretzel and gratefully accept a bag of trail mix from Massie who looks at you as though she understands everything - but she doesn't; you won't let anybody understand you.
There's a boy coming up from the front entrance of the school, surrounded by a bunch of upperclassmen - he's not the ugliest person that you've ever seen, you admit to yourself - and he almost looks lost in a cafeteria full of giggling, single girls who immediately redirect their attention to their nearest prize. He walks towards your table, and for a minute, you think that he's looking at you, that he's walking towards you, and suddenly, everything seems like it's going to get better;
He walks even closer, and you recognize him to be Derrick Harrington - that boy from Kristen's co-ed soccer team - and Derrick's coming even closer, within five feet of your lunch table; you fix your hair, and adjust your silver headband before he says;
Massie Block, will you go out with me?
She promptly slaps him across the fact, knees him in the groin, flashes an innocent smile and walks away to a group of girls who are wearing identical outfits, in different colors, supposedly showing their rank as though colors have ranks, never looking back, not even for an instant. He leaves moments after, and you turn back to your green liquid and promptly drown your sorrows in the spinach smoothie - ignoring the stranger looks that you get from the last of your lunch table.
You notice Massie slightly blushing, as if she was almost happy she had been asked by Derrick Harrington - but then again, who wouldn't be happy - and you realize that fairytales are only meant for the perfect girls - like your best friend. You're not perfect - not even close.
.
The next time that you meet him - it's a foggy Sunday, one of those days where everything is meant to go wrong.
It's some sort of red carpet event, and the cameras are pointing towards you and commenting your lack of a boyfriend - and you think to yourself that the world you're living in is messed up to think that a normal thirteen year old girl can't possibly live without a boyfriend - and then you realize that you're a part of that world, and have to live by those rules; he's there, all of a sudden.
You're not one for human contact, but the cameras are on them and he's attractive enough, you guess, so he lets her rest her head on his arm and drapes his other across her body. Everything's goes wrong from there - you recognize Derrick Harrington, and remember your best friend and how much that she had loved him, and everything that had gone on, and you see the purple M pin lying on his suit, underneath the sleeve of his right head, and you decides that he's wrong; that, perhaps, it could get worse.
.
It's going to be alright, he murmurs. He places a hand on your leg (left bare from the toohightoohigh skirt you're forced wear just for him - it's all for the publicity, all to show your mother that everything's going to be alright for you) and his fingers splay against your skin. His fingernails are dyed a rusty orange, and you're reminded of when your mother wouldn't open the peel of an orange for you - because she's Merri-Lee Marvil, and she has better things in her life to do - when you were a kid so you'd just pick at the thick skin. This isn't something you can just pick away. you inhale - you feel like choking, feel like the tar coating his lungs is blocking your airway. you exhale and think, No, I don't think it will be.
.
It starts off with this really bad divorce ( another one from your wonderful mother ) — you have convinced herself that it's the only normal reason to start to go to therapy, even though everybody tells you secretly that there's no normal in the world of therapy. After days and days of endless crying, your mother had signed you up for therapy - as if you were the one who was going through some sort of emotional trauma; in fact, you didn't really care about the newest love interest of your mother, who had already seemed to be forgotten by your younger sisters - at this godforsaken, dingy school in the middle of nowhere in which you were forced to take three trains and two buses, each consisting of three hours in the early morning, and somehow after you stayed awake through all of that, help would be provided.
Your mother made it sound as though you have a problem; but, you didn't. Nobody seemed to believe you, though - if nobody ever cared before, why should they care now? By the time you end up in front of the dingy building, you ring the doorbell of what seems to be an abandoned cat shelter. "Come in, dearie!" A warmhearted voice floats from a higher floor, and as you hesitantly walk in, you can't help but notice the ominous cobwebs that line holes in the walls, or the similarity between this woman's voice and her own grandmother.
By the time that you've reached the upper level, you realize that this is all a mistake, and board the next train for London.
.
Come on, Dylan, one of your friends calls from the train. You walk reluctantly into the compartment, sighing as you glance out the window, placing your small cat, Persephone, upon your lap and your baggage above your head – there are families saying their goodbyes, and significant others kissing, and it reminds you of him and it leaves you faintly nauseous. To make it worse, the majority of the boys start looking like him, and you wonder if you're ever going to be able to escape him, escape of all your problems that have been caused by Westchester.
Or, maybe, you should stop blaming the problems on Westchester, and start blaming them on yourself - or something like that.
You take large, gulps of Kristen's cousin Ali's marshmallow Coke, which had soon become your version of life in the fast lane —pedicured feet rest upon pedals, left behind as they are left behind in the dust. For a while, you have been this lonelytonedreject type of girl, but it's supposed to pay off, where the quarterback of the school will somehow fall in love with you and they'll live happily ever after with iloveyou's cascading down picturesque waterfalls, water droplets falling through ink splattered teardrops.
But, it's not the way to go; you stare out of the window, tears forming in your eyes, falling down, and stare at your reflection in an empty compartment; you press your head against the glass window, and stare at the beautiful city you once lived in - there are memories of childhood play, living here as a child and not being able to contain your excitement on the first day of elementary school.
You remember shopping on Fifth Avenue with the rest of the girls, smiles on as the paparazzi surrounded you, and not having a care in the world, because you were with your best friends, and nothing was going to stop you; there are memories of eating ice cream when you were seven, the year before your mother started commenting about your obese weight - though, technically, it wasn't even close, but to her, you were never going to be good enough - and how everything was so perfect, and you don't think that you're going to let go of the city. You don't want to.
Nevertheless, you already can't wait to leave Westchester.
.
They finally force you to return - your father won't allow you stay at boarding school forever, not with the agreement of split custody, and you reluctantly force yourself to think back to middle school, and pack your bags, heading for the airport. The day that you come back is different than anything you could have imagined;
It's a tepid day in Westchester, a town fifty miles from the shine and dazzle of New York City, where everything was and always would be flawless, from the snowmen that couldn't have possibly been created by inconsiderate, klutzy toddlers to the way the grass shined, equally snow covered on both sides of the road. In a place so flawless, standing out was difficult, if not impossible —nonetheless, you don't have a single problem. Your vibrant red curls - because you've been happy, being away from the drama and you even almost forget about them and him, and her and all of them - floated freely in the wind, damp bits of snowflakes delicately falling onto the charming rouge beret, a slight tinge of crimson to the edges of the Louis Vuitton trademark.
You make your way through the roads of yellow cabs and zooming runways, maneuvering around the honks of obnoxious city drivers with a few trolleys and handbags, to make her way to the pavilion outside of the airport. Out of the corner of your malachite green eyes, you spot five guys, various degrees of emotion splayed across their disinterested faces, still the same as ever with their Playboy subscription cards, "I'll do her" games, and drooling spit down unshaven cheeks - and you don't think that a single thing has changed.
"Are you guys supposed to be the welcoming committee? Leesh said that she was planning on meeting me here; are you any of you guys even listening?" Out of all of the members of the pretty committee, she was the only one you had tried to keep in contact with - the only one who sort of understood what it meant to be second best. You make your way across the room, shoving the trolley in two of the boys' hands, who wince, muttering at how heavy bags could be and who could need that much stuff, nevertheless moving it along the way.
The boy near the front conceals his face with the daily newspaper, and speaks in a familiar voice, "Alicia said that she was busy, today." In response, you check your inbox, receiving several anxious text messages from the girls, telling you to meet them at the mall. Of course, you think to yourself, remembering the date —today was New Year's Eve, the date of the city's hottest party, hosted by no other than Merri-Lee Marvil, your wonderful mother. You lock eyes with the boy, sending him a fierce glare to shut up and walk fast, then realize that you know who he is.
So, you run - as far away from Derrick Harrington and crushed dreams that you can possibly get.
.
Like all of the previous years, Merri-Lee Marvil's New Year's Yves Party was located in New York.
"Mhm, Dylan—," Claire exclaimed in between shots, finally setting her last down on the table. "—this is totally, the gurdly best party ever." It took the girls had to stifle their giggles, until you end up making a rude sort of snort. "Oh 'mi d'gurd? Is that Derrington?"
Three heads snapped; one was already turned, and one couldn't care to bother, in the direction that Claire was facing. "What is he doing here? And, Dylan, I can't believe that the two of you broke up last year. You two were the perfect couple!" Alicia wailed.
Kristen and Claire nodded in agreement, whilst Massie looks off to the side. After all, she had been the first girl in Westchester to make a move on Derrick as soon as you had left for London; after all, none of them had known that you were coming back until they had received those text messages of flight information and details, and had all come rushing back to the airport, enveloping each other in perfume, and ending up splashing coffee on each other's faces, but that was just what made them them. There wasn't really any way around it.
"—'lo?" Massie knocks on your skull, lightly, swishing the water in her glass around. "Anybody in there?"
You look at Derrick, then, across the room - he looks different; he's not the same person that you had kissed in middle school, not the same person who would make lewd remarks and do things that nobody was comfortable with doing. He seemed mature - almost like somebody that you could be friends with; you brush the thoughts out of your mind, and turn your attention back to your friends - they're looking at you as if they know something that you don't, as if you belong with Derrick; as if you're not complete without him ( or that could just be your messed up head ) and you smile, and change the topic.
.
You see Derrick, occasionally - the two of you meet up for coffee, trying to catch up like old friends, but then again, the two of you have never been that good at just being friends. It's raining outside - the sort of light drizzle from the movies, and then there's lightning in the distance; Derrick drapes his coat over you, and the two of you run in the rain, making jokes all the way down the street - camera flashes follow you wherever you go, but in a way, you sort of don't care.
And then, you press your lips to Derrick's, and this sort of magic - it's real, not the type that can be learned from textbooks.
You grin shyly and the two of you walk down the street, holding hands, framed by the New York skyline on a rainy Sunday morning, and suddenly, your paper fingers aren't paper, and you aren't feeling so broken, after all.
.
notes | everybody's sort of broken, i think.
for coppertone wars' twelve days of christmas challenge, level four, part two! song choice; skinny love by ed sheeran, (: