Here's a one-shot I pounded out today. Hope you like it. Review!!!
This is dedicated to my best friend, who has no idea how I feel about her.
Every morning, I wait for her to get to school. She rides the bus and my dad drives me to school, so I have to wait twenty minutes for her to get there. But it's all worth it, when I see her walk down the hall towards me, her sports jacket open to reveal a t-shirt and her purple bag slung over her shoulder. She cut her hair short at the beginning of the school year, so it's just past her shoulders, not quite grown out to the original length, yet. Most of the time she wears it up in a ponytail, but sometimes she wears it down with a headband.
She gets to her locker and I lean against the wall on the opposite wall, watching as she fumbles with her lock, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that I'm still there. At that point I slip through the steady line of people walking down the hall to stand behind her. She searches her locker for the books and binder she needs for her first class, gives it one last glance before shoving everything back and slamming her locker closed. Then she realizes that she left her locker on the shelf. After reopening her locker, she grabs the locker, jams the door shut again, and snaps the lock shut.
We make our way into her homeroom and I wait for her in the doorway as she dumps her bag on her desk. She starts babbling about something insane and crazy that happened at her house the night before and I smile and laugh with her as we walk into our friend's homeroom. Ten minutes passes all too fast and the bell rings. I walk her to her homeroom before heading up to my locker, grabbing my book bag, and walking down to the library for my study.
I spend first block doing homework that I put off from the night before and then I daydream about her. She's sitting in her first block class at that moment, probably with her head in her hand as she stares out the window. Sometimes I wonder if she's thinking about me, too, but I know she isn't. And even if she is thinking about me, it isn't in the way I think about her.
The bell rings, finally, and I head to my second block class. Chemistry. If it wasn't for the fact that I can write in this class without the teacher suspecting that I'm not paying attention, then I would have probably died from boredom on the first day of class. I write about me and her, using fake names of course, and how we fall in love and live happily ever after. Putting the stories in my binder, I write down the homework as the class finishes up and pack everything in my book bag. Nodding to my teacher, I walk out of the room as the bell rings and go to my locker, pulling my books out for French class.
She's already there, talking to the teacher as she waits for me. I set my books on my desk, drop my book bag on the ground, and we walk from the room side by side. Once again, she's talking, and I listen contentedly as we walk down to lunch. We can't find the people we usually sit with us, so I head over to the lunch line to wait with her, my lunch box swinging from my hand. We laugh as we make fun of the chemistry teacher (we both have the same teacher but at different times) and try to smother our grins as the teacher walks towards us. We smother our grins as she gives us both a friendly 'hello' and burst out laughing once she's out of earshot.
Once she gets her lunch, the usual pasta (no sauce) with two cookies, a salad, a slushy (which she always spills), and a milk, we find our table and sit down with our friends. We manage to eat and do our French homework at the same time, quickly writing answers into the spaces when we know that they're most likely wrong. Laughing, I listen to her stories, which she tells overdramatically, until the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and the start of our boring French class.
Madame drones on about conjugations of verbs, making the articles agree with the nouns, and how to properly structure a sentence so it isn't franglais (she cleverly put French and English together, in French, of course). I pass notes to her when Madame isn't looking and we start a game of dots (you know when you draw about a million dots on a piece of paper and try to get the most squares?) while ignoring the annoying boy behind us who insists that he's in on the next game. We share a look, saying without words that there's no way we're playing with him, so we plan to play hangman next.
Finally Madame lets us start working on our homework, and, of course, no one starts working on it because who does their homework? I turn to her and we start talking, passing our game of dots back and forth. We plan to hang out on Saturday, go see a movie, maybe sleep over, and I try to keep my happiness from shining too brightly. I glance at the clock above the door and start to pack, faintly sorry that the class will be over in less than two minutes. The bell rings and I wait as she packs her books up. We split up as we leave the French room, me going right and her turning left.
Health class goes by, surprisingly, fast. Soon enough, everyone is crowding at the door to rush to the buses, or to their cars, or walk home. I hang back because I still have to wait for her at her locker and I get really impatient. It still takes a whole two minutes for her to get there, but it's worth it when she grins at me. I remind her to bring her history binder home because she texted me to remind me while I was in chemistry.
I walk her out to her bus and we stand outside the bus for a few minutes, talking about friends, classes, and prom. She doesn't know if she's going to go because she wants to go with someone. And if she isn't going, I'm not going, either. Because she's the only one I want to go with. I'm tempted to give her a hug before she gets on the bus and I walk away, but I restrain myself because she's not a very touchy-feely person.
As I walk the mile and a half home, I think about her. Maybe, one day, I'll gather up the courage to tell her that I don't like boys. Maybe I'll tell her that I have a crush on one of my best friends. Maybe I'll tell her that best friend is her. And maybe she likes me in the same way. But, until then, I cherish every moment spent with her, and I think about her every moment I'm not in her presence.
Because I, Miley Stewart, cannot live with my best friend, Lillian Truscott.
It's not as good as my one-shots usually are, but it is what it is, and I'm content with it. Thank you all for taking time to read my stories. I really appreciate it. And REVIEW!!! Thank you all once again. I'll be updating Forgiving and Forgetting on Sunday unless I get more reviews. Thank you all once again!
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