Disclaimer: I don't CSI, etc. etc.
A/N: This is my entry to csiforeveronline . wetpaint . com's first ever fanfiction challenge. It's quite possibly my 600th attempt, because the limit is 1,000 words, and that was suuuuuch a struggle for me. Microsoft Word says this is exactly 1,000.
I need to thank Pati, my super-awesome-beta-extraordinaire, for reading all of my attempts, good and awful, and for being honest with me about all of them. :) This story is completely thanks to her.
Enjoy!
He was in love.
She was beautiful, and smart, and nice.
She was his second grade teacher, Miss Nielsen, and she made his stomach do flip-flops when she smiled. Long, straight yellow hair, blue eyes, red lips. She was heaven in primary colors, and he knew—just knew—that he was going to marry her.
He was outside at recess, examining a particularly fluffy Taraxacum officinale specimen, fighting the urge to pick it and blow the seeds into the wind. His dad always frowned when he did it, never reprimanding him, but rather turning a wistful eye over their perfectly-cultivated lawn, to the massive gardens, thick with both a myriad of ripening vegetables, and with a plethora of bright, bee-friendly blossoms. Bees, he knew, helped to pollinate his dad's plants, and so he liked them, because his father liked them.
Turning his gaze to a yellow counterpart, he picked it instead, and brought it over to Miss Nielsen, who was standing by the swings, talking to his first grade teacher—the much older, much less-smiley, Mrs. Crane. "I picked this for you, Miss Nielsen." He gave her his biggest smile, and got her big, bright smile in return. Predictably, his stomach flip-flopped, and he felt his knees go weak.
She bent down to his level, something Mrs. Crane hadn't done once the previous year. "Oh, thank you, Gil. It's beautiful." She took it from him, gave his unruly curls an affectionate ruffle, and quirked her red lips up in another smile. "I'll put it in a vase on my desk when we go inside, okay?"
"Okay," he mumbled shyly, unable to hide his smile, walking away slowly while she stood back up.
Mrs. Crane said, in the low way adults have of speaking over children's heads, thinking they are too young or too distracted or too stupid to understand, "He was always such a weird kid. You shouldn't encourage him."
"He's a sweetheart. He just needs a little extra reassurance."
"Hmph," said Mrs. Crane, but Gil didn't care. Miss Nielsen had called him her sweetheart.
It was later that day, at their afternoon recess, when the large beetle chanced upon him. He was sitting with his back against the school, pretending to read his Hardy Boys mystery that his mother thought was too old for him, but his father had given him anyway. He liked mysteries alright, but they weren't his favorite—he just knew his dad liked them. What he was really doing was watching Miss Nielsen as she watched the girls playing hopscotch, admiring the way the wind blew her hair back from her face, and her perfect, straight teeth when she smiled.
But the beetle distracted him, for a moment. He'd never given bugs much thought at all, except bees, because they helped his dad. But he liked the way the beetle used six legs to move itself forward, and the way its shiny, black body gleamed in the sun. With only a little hesitation, he put down his book and scooped the beetle into his hand. It was the size of his whole palm, and having no other place to go, started working its way up his arm, tickling along the way.
"Gil!" Miss Nielsen was there, swatting his new friend away in an instant, and then crushing it under her shoe without thought. "What were you thinking, picking up that beetle? They're gross, disgusting creatures! What is wrong with you? Go wash your hands, young man!"
Tears brimmed his eyes as he looked between his teacher and the smear on the cement that he had named Joe, after Joe Hardy, only moments before. He had not thought Joe was disgusting—he was interesting. Gil's dad would have thought so too. He turned his slumped shoulders towards the door to go wash his hands, and Mrs. Crane appeared, speaking in that same over-his-head tone.
"I told you he was a weirdo. There's something just not right with that kid."
Gil waited to hear his teacher defend him again, and call him sweetheart, but it never came.
Nicole Daley came over after school, to see if he wanted to play. She was younger than him, and liked to have her Barbies drive his too-small matchbox cars. He said he didn't want to play, but his mom shooed him out the door with her, ignoring his pout. Nicole didn't seem to notice it either, chattering away about her day as they sat on the sidewalk with his cars spread around them. They realized belatedly that they'd sat almost on top of an ant hill, but she didn't seem to mind. She giggled as they crawled over her fingers, and said she liked how they walked in lines, and carried things way, way bigger than they were.
For the first time, Gil really looked at his neighborhood playmate. She had unruly brown curls that were always tangled around her face, and her eyes were hazel. Her lips weren't red, but a softer pink, and she had a gap between her teeth. She picked a dandelion while he watched her, blowing its seeds away and laughing.
She was not Miss Nielsen—no bright palette of rainbow colors—but she fit better, here, anyway. She looked like she belonged, sitting on the ground, at home with earth and sky, and every creature in it. It wasn't the ant's fault that it was born what it was, and it wasn't the beetle's fault either. …Sometimes things were just born a certain way, and they couldn't help it if others thought it was weird.
Nicole didn't think he was weird, even when he talked about his dad's plants, and the bees. And come to think of it, he liked how ants walked in lines and carried heavy things too.
"Nicole? Will you marry me?" She smiled, a big, gap-toothed smile, and his stomach flip-flopped.
If the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step—the journey to Sara Sidle began that day.