AN: I've had this sitting around literally for YEARS and I don't think I'll ever finish it, but I want to get rid of it. So here is a scrap of a story, probably rife with mistakes, blah blah blah, oh well. Obviously there is a slight rearranging of events here. I have no idea how inaccurate this is being, (probably extremely!) but just go with me here. I saw this movie again on TV and it really made me want to write something pointless.
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Roberta was pissed.
Of course she had been completely devastated when her mother had died, but what her dad had told her then— The lie, she reminded herself bitterly— it had at least given her a little comfort. She had been relying on that false comfort to keep her from totally losing it whenever she thought about her mother's death. Now she just felt sick. He lied to me. Her jaw clenched tighter.
The angry thoughts swirling in her head fueled her forceful strides through the cool evening air. Her dark blue canvas sneakers pounded the pavement of the empty street, the minor sound ricocheting off the closed garage doors. It was past 9:30 on a Sunday night, and all of the respectable residents of the Gaslight Addition were retired to their homes for the day, resting up for another workweek.
Roberta glared disdainfully at the row of cheerfully illuminated windows before turning away and resuming her march. She sighed heavily, shoving her hands into the deep pockets of her jacket. Her pace slowed, she kicked moodily at the stray pebbles on the sidewalk. A slow, deep rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. The streetlamps flickered to life and hummed with yellow electricity. Crickets came to life.
It had happened five years ago. She was fourteen now. Of course he would lie. How could he tell me the truth? It had been really terrible… The unforgiving words printed in the faded black ink flashed before her eyes again: "pinned for three hours"..."mangled vehicle"… "massive head trauma"… She shut them out, squeezing her eyes closed and shaking her head.
"I can't believe I just accepted that bullshit!" she screamed into the empty, chilled air. Her voice echoed satisfyingly into the dark sky, rising in a misty cloud. The wind was starting to pick up. She yanked a frustrated hand through her long black hair, roughly pushing it from her face.
Her hands returned to her pockets, fingertips brushing against the papers stuffed there. The folded photocopy of the truth was still with her, along with another scrap of paper—the latter with messy, scrawled handwriting so close to being illegible that could only belong to a boy. This one only said, "Your tree house-10pm," then added near the bottom, underlined twice, as if afraid she wouldn't come, "Please." And then two letters: "SW".
When she had found the letter taped to the handlebar of her bicycle that afternoon, she had ripped it off and shoved it in her pocket as soon as she realized whom it was from, an unstoppable blush creeping onto her face. She hoped no one else had seen it. She had glanced around and there hadn't been anyone in sight. He was already making things obvious enough, the way he had been staring at her lately. All the time! No one could be that interesting to watch! She just tried to ignore it and her friends didn't seem to notice. But now he was leaving physical evidence! That was before she and her friends had biked to that library and she had seen that article… Now it was nearly 9:45, and she had just escaped through her bedroom window to meet a boy. Alone. What would dad have to say about that? she thought defiantly, and then instantly regretted it. Since when do I do sissy crap like this?
"The only reason I'm going is because I need to get out of the house to think," Roberta reasoned with herself aloud, "I couldn't sleep. And I needed some fresh air, anyway." Roberta had thoroughly convinced herself for a very long time that she wasn't some priss. She wasn't the kind of girl who would go meet up with a boy at his whim for some sort of ridiculous romantic interlude. That kind of shit only happened in the movies Teeny watched. Total fiction. Not in her life. Just because she had let the kid kiss her once didn't mean she was going to start being some kind of girly girl. She could still kick his ass anytime—if she wanted to. This was all business. Find out what he wants, then bolt. Maybe kick his ass, too, for good measure, if it turned out to be a waste of time. At least, that's what she kept mentally repeating to herself.
As she passed by a wood-paneled mini-van parked by the curb, she paused to study her mirror image where she caught it in one of its dark, reflective windows. She combed her fingers through her hair. She grabbed her chapstick from her jean pocket and hastily smoothed it over her dry lips, rubbing them together. Then she stopped. A disgusted expression looked back at her.
"What the hell am I doing?" she asked aloud. She jammed the chapstick back into her jean pocket angrily.
A few drops of rain hit the window of the van and slid downward across her reflection. Another couple of drops splattered on the sidewalk in front of her, painting the white cement dark grey. One splashed on the tip of her nose. She could hear a rising volume of tinny pattering of rain bouncing off of the metal mailboxes lining the suburban street.
"Damn it!" She took off in a sprint. The rain rapidly increased in density until it was practically indistinguishable from the surrounding air. She pulled her already soaked jacket tightly around her and squinted at street signs, splashing recklessly through deeper-than-they-looked pothole puddles and overflowing gutters until she finally reached her destination.
Panting loudly, she practically dove into the dry haven that was the tree house. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside, shaking her arms off and sending drops flying from her numbed fingertips. Fuck, that's cold! Her sopping sneakers squelched loudly on the mostly dry wooden planks of the floor.
"Hey..."
Roberta jumped and swore loudly. She had nearly forgotten why she had run here in the first place. She hastily combed her dark, dripping hair out of her eyes and looked up. The boy moved forward from his previous position of leaning against the back wall of the tree house. It suddenly dawned on Roberta that he somehow knew about their plan to buy this exact tree house. He had called it 'your tree house' and was waiting in the exact one they had picked out. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
God, meeting him here is almost like some kind of treason or something, isn't it?
His dusty-shade-of-blonde hair was wet and tangled, sticking up in odd places and plastered to his forehead in others. His shoulders showed he was breathing rather heavily; he must have got in a few moments before she had. His brown jacket was also soaked, dark with moisture—the jacket he was wearing on the swing when…, she recalled with a sudden jolt, and her heart actually skipped a goddamn beat. Shit. She grit her teeth against the foreign reaction. Get a grip.
"I was worried you weren't going to show up," the boy admitted quietly, relief painted clearly on his pale face. He smiled tentatively and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Was that supposed to help? Roberta thought scathingly, eying him critically. He was a total mess. And his bangs fell sloppily into his grey-blue eyes. He gave her a tentative smile.
The effect was pitifully endearing…cute, even… in a stupid, pathetic way. Not that it looks good or anything, just different than it usually does… she thought, …just crappy in a different way, she mentally added for good measure.
At that moment, her dark eyes met with his light ones. The dull light in the vacant parking lot of the Sears played off his irises in an eerie way. He was watching her intently. Stop! Stop looking at his weirdo eyes!
She realized she hadn't spoken a word out loud yet, besides the swear she had let loose at the sight of him.
"Uh…yeah," she started awkwardly, instantly sickened at how timid her own voice was sounding at that moment. She cleared her throat and continued in a stronger, more Roberta-like tone, "So what's your reason for dragging me out here in the rain? It'd better be good."
He coughed... or choked somewhat. She couldn't tell. He looked like he was working up the nerve to say something, mouth opening and then closing several times without resulting in any words. Well, I don't have all night, Wormy. She busied herself by reaching around to grab her sodden mass of hair and wring it out, and then flung it back over her shoulder. She returned her gaze to him, still waiting for his answer. Why did he seem so nervous? His nervousness was making her nervous. Which made her annoyed. The rain pounded on the wooden roof planks.
"I—Did…did you want to talk? Or something?" he tried.
She gave him a blank look, eyebrows raised, "About…?"
"D-didn't you read the note?" he asked, looking highly crestfallen. He repeated the raking motion through his damp hair. His bangs fell back down into his eyes again anyway. Roberta bit her lip… only to hold off a scowl.
"Of course I read it, why in the hell do you think I showed up here?" she snapped with a little more force than she really intended. He just looked so pitiful at the moment. Easy prey. He glanced at her, then looked away again, face slightly red. It just occurred to her that she forgot to apply her usual duct tape that day. She crossed her arms over her chest and observed him shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.
There was about four feet of space between them, and awkwardness was quickly filling every cubic inch of it.
"Did you—Um, you read both sides?"
"…Both sides," Roberta deadpanned.
The boy jerked his head in a nod.
Roberta released a loud frustrated sigh, muttering under her breath about "why the hell someone would write on the back of a note…." She meant to tug only the note out of her pocket, but another paper fell to the floor with a small damp thud. Roberta could only stare at it. She knew what it was, and she didn't want to pick it up. She never wanted to see it again, in fact.
Scott, seeing that Roberta wasn't moving, reached down and retrieved it. It didn't look like his note… He unfolded it slowly. Roberta desperately wanted him not to unfold it. It seemed to be happening in slow motion, but she couldn't stop it. She was frozen. His eyes swept over the paper…brow furrowed…
"Scott," She finally managed to say something— his name. It burst through the silence and seemed to hang there. I said his name. His first name. Weird.
He looked up, paper forgotten, apparently just as surprised as she was that she had called him by his first name.
"…Roberta?" He returned the favor, albeit in a softer tone. Then again, he had always called her by her name. What else would he call her?
Roberta only stuck out her open hand forcefully. Scott glanced back down at the unfolded paper in his hands, then back up at her. Was it too late?
"Give it," she said sternly, issuing the command as if to a dog. Her eyes bored into his, willing him to obey. His grey-blue gaze returned to the paper for a moment, then back to her face. A slight frown tilted his lips. What was that expression? Pity. He knows…He must know. She swallowed down the growing tightness in her throat. She had to look down, away from his face. Her eyes were burning, prickling, blurring. Why? Why did she have to get all emotional now, in front of him? It's just a damn piece of paper. It was such a long time ago.
Scott finally took a step forward and held the unfolded article out to her; she watched his sneakers get closer to hers on the floor, which she was currently staring took a deep breath and reached forward and snatched the paper from him, avoiding his inquisitive stare. He let her have it, but gently took hold of the crook of her arm as she tried to retreat. She flinched at the touch. She felt like getting the hell out of there. She was too vulnerable to be seen by anyone, much less a wormy Wormer.
"Roberta…" he said, a hint of pleading leaking into his tone, like he could sense her flight instincts kicking in. She was forced to look back up at his face. His eyes had the quality of liquid silver. They sucked her in like the light from the lot lampposts, trapped there. She waited for him to say something else, unable to unstick her tongue.
"She… s-she looks a lot like you," the boy finally concluded. It was so quiet; the pounding rain almost drowned it out.
"…Looked." Roberta turned her face to the window to avoid looking at him.
"What?" He angled around her to get back into her line of sight. Her eyes were hard, seeing through him into some unknown memory.
"Looked. She looked like me," Roberta answered. Her voice quaked uncontrollably, with anger or sadness or just coldness, she wasn't sure. But the urge to cry had dried up, "She's dead, obviously. Dead people are past-tense. And anyway, it would be me who looks like her…"
He blinked. She finally met his gaze, challenging him to say one more damn word about it. Her fist tightened around the paper, crushing it. His eyes flicked down to the motion. He swallowed dryly.
"I…Oh. I mean… er, sure," he mumbled. Then, after a moment, "Sorry."
"Don't say 'sorry', I hate it when people say that," she intoned, hardly able to muster a proper glare.
She finally shrugged out of his grip, "So what is on this stupid note, huh?"
She stuffed the crumpled article back into her other pocket, and fished out the correct piece of paper. Scott took a step back. Roberta's dark eyes scanned the scrawl on the paper again.
Your tree house-10pm
Please.
SW
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She turned it over in her hands.
I heard yelling at your house.
Are you ok?
Meet me.
She read it again, flipped it again, and read the back to get the complete note. A whole minute passed in silence. Abruptly, Roberta crumpled the note in to a paper ball and threw it viciously where it ricocheted off of Scott's shoulder. He recoiled, shocked.
"What the hell, Scott!? What, are you spying on me? What the hell is this?" Roberta raged. She advanced, fists prepared.
Scott cringed, hands up in a placating gesture.
"I just wanted to make sure you were OK!" he pleaded. He flinched as Roberta advanced with an accusing pointing gesture and forcefully jabbed him in the chest with it.
"OK? I'd be better if there wasn't some Wormy Wormer creeping around my house eavesdropping!" she shouted over a rumble of thunder.
This kid smacks lips with her once and now he thinks he has some sort of permit to stalk?
Scott dropped his hands, "I wasn't spying. I was only walking home, I swear." He glanced up at her, raking through his hair again. He was the picture of pitiful.
Damn it… Roberta's rage cooled a little. She dropped her jabbing finger and crossed her arms.
"I was angry at my dad. We shouted. It's no big deal… and none of your business," she explained, trying to keep her tone even, but it ended up getting back into pissed-off range at the end.
"Okay, so… you're fine?" he tried meekly.
"Why wouldn't I…", she started impatiently, but her train of thought was derailed as her brain started working on a different puzzle. Why would he think I need help? Why would he be worried if I didn't show up?
A horrible realization came over her at that moment that made her stomach miss a step on the stairs. What does yelling at his house mean?
She looked at him with new eyes. He stiffened. It was like he could sense the gears turning in her head. He reminded her of an animal cornered. Roberta suddenly had the sense that she was confronting something big, dark and terrible. She did the only Roberta thing to do—tackled it head on.
"Scott, are you okay?" she took a step towards him, scrutinizing him intensely. He shrunk back. The silver in his eyes was a panicked flickering fire.
Bingo. Damnit, why do I have to be right?