Okay. So. It's a twisted kind of songfic to Taylor Swift's Fifteen, and it has a surprise pairing. And when I say surprise pairing, I mean surprise pairing.
And yes, there is cursing. Let's be realistic, people. The characters in this one-shot will curse, no matter what happens.
Btw, I don't own anything.
And this is really long. My longest one-shot, I think.
And, oh, yeah, Ericka(whereitallbegins), this is for you.
(p e r f e c t / s t o r m)
i.
The first time you saw her, she was walking through the doors of Briarwood Academy with an eager smile on her face, oblivious to the fact that the next four years of her life would be filled with lies, deceit, and a shitload of bull. She was a freshman, you were a senior. The moment you set eyes on her, you knew she was the one. She was one of the lucky freshmen that would date a senior.
It was cruel, really—then again, high school was fucking made of cruelty. And this was just another high school tradition, just like how everyone was practically obligated to hate the freshmen and adore the seniors. This was different, though. This "tradition" was different(pitiless)—a senior always dates a freshman. Always. And it has (almost)always been a competition among the senior boys—who gets the best(easiest) freshman?
You knew that she was your ticket to winning. She had potential. All you had to do was knock-out the innocence and the naivety, and she would become the perfect storm.
"Dude, dibs on her," you say, pointing to the dirty-blonde freshman, who was happily greeting her long-time-no-see friends who would all eventually hate her when you start talking to her.
"Whatever. I get the best friend," Chris Abeley says, eyeing the beach blonde you didn't notice before.
You walk up to her, and you say, "Hey. I've never seen you around here before."
"Oh," she says, blushing. You inwardly smirk. Freshmen girls were so easy to impress. "I'm new."
No shit, Sherlock.
"Oh. I understand." You smile at her, using the full force of your Fisher charm. "You want me to show you around?"
You watch her as she turns around to look at her friend, but the beach blonde's already chatting it up with Abeley. She turns back to you, tucking a strand of her dirty blonde hair behind one ear. "Yeah. Sure. That would be great," she says, and you smile.
This was just too easy.
"I'm Harris Fisher, by the way," you say, and you get confused when a look of recognition passes her flawless face.
"Fisher? Are you related to Cam Fisher?" she asks, and irritation sparks up in you. What has little Cammie have to do with all of this?
"Yes. I'm his older brother. You know him?" You say, successfully keeping the irritation out of your voice.
"Well, he's my younger brother's best friend." She shrugs. "My name's Sammi Harrington."
Ah. Harrington. Derrick Harrington. So this was that little douche's hot older sister little Cammie was telling you about.
"Oh, I know your little brother," you say, keeping the conversation light. "Funny, he never mentioned how beautiful his older sister was."
You smile as you see her blush, because you know that this was it. She was caught up in your Fisher charm, and she was never going back.
"Come on. Time for your tour," you say, leading her down the hallway.
Oh, if only she knew that following you would turn her life into a tragedy.
ii.
A week after you met her, you asked her to cut class with you.
She agreed.
When she meets up with you in your rendezvous spot(the back building of the school, the only place completely void of security cameras), you notice that she's constantly looking over her shoulders and keeping her head low. You smirk as she smiles at you hesitantly, looking over her shoulder again. Oh, the feeling of cutting classes for the first time.
"Don't be so nervous," you say as she climbs into your car.
She gives you a smile, and you give her a smirk.
She is silent as you drive off and she stays silent as you drum your fingers to the music blaring from the car stereo. You stop at the lake where you went the first time you cut classes. Somehow, this place has always had some sort of sentimental value to you. That may sound like sappy gay shit, but it's true.
You watch her as her eyes roam over the place, the glittering water, the green grass, the colorful flowers. You liked going here for the peace. There was no noise here.
You get out and lie down on the grass, lighting up a cigarette as you go. A moment after, she sits beside you and stares at the cigarette.
"What does that taste like?"
You look at her as the smoke comes out of your mouth.
"I don't really know. It's hard to explain. It tastes kind of rough and spicy."
She just stares at it.
You can tell that she's going to try it by next week.
iii.
"Party. Next week. Come with me?" you ask her in the hallway as she's taking her books out of her locker.
She smiles at you and looks at her beach blonde best friend with the earthy name.
"I'm going with Chris," the beach blonde says.
"Okay," she tells you. "I'm in."
"Excellent. I'll pick you up at eight." You wink at her as you walk away, and you saw the glare that the brunette with big ears sent her way.
Girls.
iv.
You could practically feel her nervousness as you helped her out of the car.
Typical for a first-timer.
"Relax. It's just a party," you whisper in her ear, and she shudders, but it seems to have the desired effect. You felt her shoulders relax under your arm. Your ever-present smirk forms on your lips by the time you reach the front door. You knock.
"Fisher!" Grant Joseph slurs excitedly when he sees you. His droopy eyes turn to Sammi, looking her up and down. "And who is this pretty lady?"
"Hands-off, Grant," you say with a light tone. But you surprise yourself when you realize that you actually meant it. You glance at Sammi. Black stockings. Sequined silver shift dress. Black peep-toes. You haven't noticed, but she looked good.
You lead her inside and you are immediately engulfed in the pounding music and gyrating bodies and the mixed smell of cigarette, pot smoke, alcohol and sweat.
It smells like a fucking party.
You lead her to the drinks table, all of your worries and inhibitions immediately washed away. You grab a beer and hand it to her, and she refuses. You shrug. You can tell she's not the beer type of person. You give her rum coke. She accepts.
"What is this?" she shouts over the loud music.
"Just try it!" you shout back, and you lead her away to where Chris and her best friend are sitting down. You plop down beside Abeley and you start drinking, watching Sammi from your peripheral vision as she sits down beside the beach blonde. The beach blonde peeks over Sammi's untouched drink, and she smiles. You can tell that Abeley already had her drinking something.
"Try that!"
Sammi looks down at it, shrugs, and takes a sip.
You smirk as she immediately cringes from the taste. Then takes another sip.
This was just the beginning.
v.
An hour later, both of you are intoxicated (Sammi realized that her forte was in drinking vodka) and you're both dancing and feeling and hearing nothing but the pounding music. And the voice of some great being shouting "Shots!"
You walk over to the table and you feel her follow you. You smile as you look at the shot glasses filled with multicolored jelly.
"Jell-O!" Abeley shouts beside you, grabbing one and immediately drinking it.
"Jell-O?" she asks you, and Grant overhears.
"Frosh!" he calls over to her, giving her a shot glass. "Try it!"
She gives you a glance, and you just smile encouragingly at her. She downs it, and everybody cheers.
"Flaming! Flaming! Flaming!" Abeley chants. Abeley loves flaming shots. "Flaming shots for the froshies!"
"What are those?" Sammi slurs to you.
You just smile as some junior comes over with a tray of shot glasses and vodka and a lighter.
"Watch this," Abeley says, grabbing a shot glass as the junior gets the flame ready. Abeley downs the shot, opens his mouth, and the junior lights it up. The crowd cheers even more as the flame fires up, and after five seconds, Abeley closes his mouth and swallows.
"Ready?" you ask her.
Without any hesitation at all, she takes a shot glass.
vi.
At two am, you stumble out to the backyard.
"I like the warmth of vodka," she says, flopping down clumsily on the grass. You flop down beside her, a little less drunk than she is (it's not like this was your first time). "I like your eyes. I like your leather jacket." She says, crawling over to you. "I like you," she says as her lips crash down on yours. You don't stop her, because, damn, she's a great kisser.
Surprisingly, you don't go farther than a make-out.
vii.
By Monday next week, Sammi Harrington became known as Harris Fisher's freshman girlfriend.
By Tuesday, Sammi started sitting with him during lunch.
By Wednesday, she cut classes with him again.
By Thursday, she drank vodka again.
By Friday, she had her first cigarette.
viii.
A month later, Abeley scored.
The beach blonde best friend gave in.
Sammi's silent during third period.
"I'm not asking you for anything," you tell her as she gazes at the lake.
You actually meant that.
You look at her again, and you never noticed before, but her eyes are actually hazel, and they turn gold in some lights.
And you get sort of mesmerized.
ix.
Within four months, Sammi Harrington changed(broke). You changed(broke) her. She started carrying a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a flask of vodka with her everywhere. And she would cut classes with you now, and she wasn't nervous about anything anymore.
x.
One night, she calls you.
"My mother got mad at me. I'm outside your house."
You hurriedly open the door, and you let her in without one word.
You let her sleep on your bed for four days.
You slept on the couch.
xi.
Her form is silhouetted against the setting sun, and you get sort of, kind of, definitely get caught up in her, because, fuck, you've never noticed that she was that beautiful. She turns to look at you with an innocent and beautiful smile on her pink lips, and you unwittingly remember that naive little freshman you met almost five months ago, and how she was gone. This was the new Sammi Harrington. She may look picture perfect to anyone who was just passing by, but if you look at her again, you'd notice the lit cigarette hanging carelessly from her lithe fingers, and the little silver flask of vodka sticking out of her back pocket. And if you looked at her long enough, you'd see the experienced half-smirk on her lips telling you that she was better than you, and you'd see the lazy, mysterious glint in her hazel(sometimes gold) eyes telling you that she's been there, done that.
For a moment, you wonder what happened to that little freshman with an eager smile and an innocent glint in her hazel(sometimes gold) eyes.
Then, you remember that you happened to her.
You're such an asshole.
xii.
Two months later, you're picking her up from a party that you didn't go to because, hell, you were Harris Fisher, and if you didn't feel like going to some sophomore's party, you wouldn't go to some sophomore's party.
But, in the middle of the partying, Abeley calls you to tell you that your girlfriend is passed out on a bathtub and that you should go get her because he is too freaking wasted to drive.
You don't know why but you immediately get up and drive over.
You carry her into your car, and you cringe as you notice that she reeks of alcohol(her favorite vodka, tequila and...is that Jager?) and pot smoke. You know that bringing her home would just cause millions of problems, and you hated being bothered with problems, so you just drive her over to your house, since your parents are already both asleep and your younger brother would never tell anyone if anything happened because he knew you would beat him to a pulp if anyone ever found out about anything you don't want them to find out about.
As predicted, your parents were asleep and you carry her into your room and set her down on your bed. You take of her shoes-and her shoes only, surprising yourself because you knew that if you were with a girl, alone in your bedroom, you'd be doing something more than sleeping.
But this time is different, because she kind of looks so peaceful with her eyes closed, and you don't want to disturb her.
Fuck, when did you start turning into such a sap?
xiii.
The next day, she jolts upright when she wakes up and looks wildly around the room.
"Good morning," you drawl, looking at her with a lazy look on your face.
She looks down at herself and then looks up at you. "What happened?"
"You passed out on a bathtub, so I brought you here."
"Holy shit, I have to get home."
You silently watch her as she puts on her shoes, kisses you briefly and heads out the door.
xiv.
Seven days later, you're both at another party, and she's getting drunk off her ass. You sprawl out on a couch, feeling...tired. Tired of the beer in your hand, tired of watching Chris Abeley exchange spit with that Skye Hamilton (Sammi told you her name), tired of constantly having girls wink at you, tired of this music, tired of this fucking party. Tired. And you feel sort of like you want to go home.
What the fuck was happening to you?
You look at Sammi, on her way to complete intoxication, and you think you should bring her with you because...well, just because.
You grab her arm and she's protesting as you pull her away, but you ignore her and you get into your car. Sammi glares at you slowly, because, apparently she didn't like the silence and the lack of a shot glass on her hand.
"What are you doing?" she drawls.
"That was a lame-ass party," you say, and your tone suggests that she should keep quiet.
Fortunately, she's sober enough to get the hint, and she keeps quiet, opting to just take out a cigarette from her pocket and clamping it loosely from her lips. She doesn't light it.
You drive to that lake where you went the first time she skipped class with you, and she gets out and climbs on your car, laying down on the hood. You follow her after she's already settled down.
Her cigarette is still not lit, and you take out your book of matches, taking out one of the small wooden sticks and striking it on the side of the box. You hold out the lit match in front of her, and she leans her head forward to light up the cigarette on her lips.
You watch her as she takes one hit, then stares at the cigarette held in between her fingers. She looks at you, and you are inwardly startled at the look in her eyes. It was...it was regretful, hate-filled, vulnerable, and...lost. Lost. Sammi Harrington was a lost little girl trapped in your messed-up misguided world. You fucked her up, you know.
"I hate you," she says, and you find that you're not surprised to hear that from her. "I hate you so much. I really do."
"I know," you say indifferently, and she takes another hit from her cigarette.
"You know?" she asks you, fury clear in her voice. "Good. Then you know that all my friends fucking hate me, you know that everyone thinks I'm a fucking skank, you know that I'm getting alienated from my mother, you know that I'm only fucking fifteen and I've already been wasted numerous times, you know that I've already taken a shitload of drugs, and you know that I've started smoking, something I swore I would never do. You know that my life is fucking ruined, and I hope you know that it's all your fault."
You know it's the alcohol that's making her say this, you know that she means every word, and you know that she's completely right.
"I know," you say again. What else were you supposed to say? I'm sorry?
"That's all you can say for ruining my life? Everyone said I had a fucking bright future ahead of me. Now, they're saying 'Sammi Harrington is one hot mess that's never going to be fixed again.'"
"I'm sorry?" you say, and you know she'll get mad because it came out sounding like a question.
"Fuck you, Harris Fisher," she says, throwing her unfinished cigarette at you as she slides down the hood of your car. You watch the cigarette burn a hole through your leather jacket, only taking it out as the the fire threatened to burn your skin. You look up, but she's already far away, slightly tumbling as she takes off her heels in the distance.
Surprisingly, you find that you actually meant that apology. Yes, you're sincerely sorry for fucking her up.
xv.
You don't see her for the next week, or the next week, or the next week, and you can tell that she's avoiding you.
The one thing she should've done in the first place.
xvi.
The next time you are reminded of her is when her little douche-bag-in-the-making little brother comes over to your house. Derrick Harrington waves at you when he sees you, and you know that Sammi didn't tell him anything. In an effort to intimidate the future jerkhole, you look directly into his eyes, but you look away after only ten seconds. His eyes, they look just like hers when you first saw her-happy, carefree, innocent.
It was then that you realize that maybe, just maybe, Sammi Harrington actually meant something to you, and maybe, just maybe, you didn't need to change(break) her.
God, Harris, when did you turn into such a loser?
xvii.
She was there during graduation.
She was sitting in perfect view, and she was the only one you saw during the whole celebration.
It was in that one moment when the sun shined on her face and her eyes turned gold that you realized that you actually are in love with Sammi Harrington, and she wasn't just some random girl you hooked up with.
And you, Harris Fisher, you ruined everything.
xviii.
You approach her after the ceremony.
"Hey," you say.
"Hey."
You look into her eyes. Her eyes are carefree again.
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
You kiss her forehead. It was sappy, and it was cliché, and it wasn't like you to do that, but you didn't really care.
"Goodbye," you say, giving her a genuine smile. A sad smile.
She smiles back at you, and you almost wanted to stay because that smile she gave you was so fucking heartbreaking it actually did crush your heart.
(You actually had a heart.)
She's trying to fix her life now, and she doesn't need you to fuck it up all over again.
The beginning wasn't that good ):
Okay. Who thought it was going to be Kristen/Cam at the beginning?
And, I have no idea if a cigarette could burn a hole through a leather jacket, but let's just say it could, okay?