Jane
"Who're you gonna do your paper on? Musician, O'Neill said."
Daria entered her room, and threw her backpack on her bed.
I followed, smirking.
"I dunno about me, but I know who you could do yours on…"
"Funny, Lane."
She sat at her desk, I sat on her bed. We stared each other down.
"Fine," I said. "If you don't like my suggestion, who're you picking?"
"Lennon."
"Figures."
"What's the supposed to mean?
"Nothing, just…"
"What?"
"Isn't Lennon a little too idealistic for you?"
"You don't think I'm idealistic?"
God, she seemed offended. The thing with Daria is, you never know
what you can say around her. I mean, others would probably think that
she was being sarcastic, but I could always tell. She was a bit idealistic, to tell you the truth. But most people don't know that.
I decided to change the subject;
fights aren't ever fun (well, okay, sometimes they are), but they
really suck when they're with your only friend.
The only person you give a damn about.
The only person you. . .
So, I changed the subject.
"I'm thinking about Joan Baez."
"That sounds like you, Jane."
"Or maybe…" I decided to test the waters.
"…Alix Dobkin."
"Hmmm…"
Daria was writing now, probably not even paying attention to me.
She tilted her head, her thick, auburn mane sliding
over her neck, revealing her peachy skin.
The sound of her pencil scraping against her notebook paper was nothing compared to the
sound in my head,
the incessant pounding.
I'd waited too long. I couldn't stop now.
I wanted her too damn much.
"Daria, I…"
"Hmmm…?" she turned to me, her brown eyes big, questioning,
staring into my soul almost.
My mouth felt very dry.
I must've taken too long to answer.
"Jane, what?" she pushed.
Before I could even think, I pounced on her.
I grabbed her head and pushed my lips against hers.
I tried to kiss her, tried to get her to kiss me back.
But she wouldn't.
When I pulled away, I was breathless.
Her mouth was a thin line, lips still shut,
though the surrounding area was pink.
My smudged lipstick.
"Damn it, Daria." I looked away.
Embarrassed.
She left her room, then, not even saying anything else to me.
Damn it.
When I got outside, she was sitting on the sidewalk
picking at her boot.
"Can I sit down?" I asked, but she didn't reply, so I did anyway.
God, she looked so beautiful.
I suddenly felt very helpless without my spiral, without something on me
to capture the way she looked right now.
She wasn't facing me, but that was the charm.
The sun was setting in the distance, casting an amber glow on her skin.
She looked amazing.
"I'm so sorry, amiga. I just…" Something hit me. Trying to stay calm, I asked,
"We are still friends, right?"
"Why did you do that?"
I tried to think of a decent response, but none came.
I kicked a rock with my shoe and watched it enter
the gutter on the opposite side of the street.
I shrugged.
"I liked it," she said, all quiet-like.
"What!"
"I liked it." She looked at me, not appearing lost, hopeless,
confused, dazed, and all those other things I'd felt when I first realized
my true feelings for my best friend. For her.
She appeared powerful, aware.
Now she knew what she did to me.
"Jane," she leaned forward and whispered. If I didn't know any better,
I'd swear she was taunting me.
"Do you wanna stay the night?"