Dirt
Ninnik Nishukan
Author's notes: The events at the beginning of this chapter pick up immediately after episode 65, which is part two of the Beverly Hills Teens Christmas special, "Miracle at the Teen Club" (also the final episode of the show). The orphans and orphanage mentioned are from this episode.
The orphans are playing with their Christmas gifts while the adults and teenagers are singing carols around the Christmas tree. Watching all this, a sudden thought strikes Wilshire.
This all feels great. The mood is wonderful and the children look happy, but why should this only be the case during Christmas?
He has so much. So many things, so many resources, so much money. He could give so much more, and often. All year 'round. They all could, but he supposes he'll have to start with himself.
The first order of business, then, would be finding someone who might know how to put his funds to good use.
Clearing his throat, he approaches the orphanage manager.
She's astonished when she realizes what he's offering, but she rallies fast. She's an older, experienced woman, and doesn't waste an opportunity when she sees one. They're just starting to really get into some brainstorming, when they're interrupted.
"Wilshire…?"
Wilshire turns around. "Yes, Bianca?" he answers politely, hoping she's not going to tell him to drive her home right away. It's always so hard for him to say no to her, and he wants to be able to finish this conversation with the manager. It feels important.
The tone of her voice is hesitant, though; she doesn't sound like she's about to start ordering him around. "Um…can you come over here for a second? I have…uh, a present for you."
He gawks at her, not quite believing his ears. "You mean, like, a Christmas present? For me?"
She makes a reluctant noise in her throat, looking strangely embarrassed. "…something like that."
Excusing himself to the manager, he tells her he'll be right back. Wilshire practically floats after Bianca as she leads them behind the large Christmas tree, to a spot with fewer people. She's not acting like herself, and he knows he shouldn't get his hopes up, but he's dreamed about a scenario like this too many times. Although, it usually involved Valentine's Day instead of Christmas.
When they stop, and Bianca turns to talk to him, he notices that she's fidgeting. That doesn't seem like her, either. "I, uh…I suppose I never said thank you."
His eyebrows shoot up; no, this is definitely not the usual Bianca. Could even she be affected by the sweet, heavy Christmas mood? "You want to thank me? For what?"
"For when I accidentally left Empress at the pool and you came to bring her to me," she explains, shrugging, and glancing up to see his reaction. "You know, so I wouldn't worry?"
"Oh! Gosh, Bianca, that's okay, no problem." His tone is modest, but his face has lit up with joyful surprise. "It was nothing. How could I not? I know how much you love that dog."
"I would also thank you not to refer to Empress as 'that dog'," she goes on, her voice going a touch frosty with offense. "It makes her sound like a common mutt. I'll have you know my Empress is a purebred French poodle!"
His hands going up now, Wilshire begins backing away. "Of course— I'm sorry, Bianca, I didn't mean to imply—"
Suddenly, Bianca feels as if a heavy stone has dropped into her stomach. Even when she's trying to thank him, even when she's working so hard to be good for five seconds, she ends up scolding him. Her cheeks hot and her neck cold with unfamiliar shame, she rushes forward to grab him before he can cower further.
When her hand grips his upper arm, she can feel him wincing, as if he's expecting her to strike him. Her stomach seems to tighten around the stone, its jagged edges scraping against her insides.
Swallowing, she forces herself to be as gentle as possible as she embraces him. Not yanking. Not making any sudden movements. Not acting demanding as she slips her arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder.
After a beat or two, his arms rise uncertainly to wrap around her waist. His breathing is shallow, and he's staring into the green, glittery shadows of the Christmas tree. When she says nothing, only shifts her arms to make herself more comfortable, he hugs her closer, tighter. Dares to exhale properly. Wishes he was allowed to bury his nose in her hair and inhale. Doesn't dare try.
She lets him hold her for an entirety of thirty-five seconds (he counts them). Then she untangles herself from the hug, smoothing down her jacket and her hair.
When she looks up again, Wilshire's staring at her, awe-struck. "B-Bianca?"
Bianca clears her throat softly. "Merry Christmas, Wilshire."
"Yeah…merry Christmas," he murmurs, the confusion on his face easing into a tentative smile.
"Don't read too much into it," Bianca adds, then, patting down her hair again. "It's all these poor singing orphans, they put me in a sappy holiday mood." She makes a flapping, dismissive hand gesture towards the caroling crowd. "Okay, Wilshire?"
He doesn't answer.
She blinks up at him, only to be met with a frown.
The frown starts out uncertain, but turns into what can only be labelled disapproving. Somehow, she's let him down. It's not an attitude she's completely unfamiliar with getting from him, but it's usually more about having shocked him. Now he simply seems disappointed.
He draws a breath. "Bianca, that's…even for you, that's insensitive."
Her eyes narrow. "What, I'm being insensitive just because I'm asking you not to—?"
"No, I meant about the orphans," he interrupts her quietly. "They're real, tiny people with real feelings. Not just set decorations in some tacky Christmas movie."
She blinks, momentarily surprised. "Wilshire—"
"Never mind. Um…could you excuse me for a second, please? I was talking to the manager of the orphanage. Is that okay?"
Bianca wants to yell at him for interrupting her, for ignoring her to talk to somebody else, but for once, she can't. He's actually being as polite as ever. Asking for permission. The only thing that's different is that at least in this moment, his world doesn't revolve entirely around her. "Oh. Sure…"
Wilshire gives her a tight little smile before leaving her behind the Christmas tree.
Bianca finds herself with a sudden need to compose herself, and remains behind the tree for a moment before stepping back out into the crowd.
The first thing she sees is Tara and Larke, standing with Blaze as they sing their carols.
Bianca groans. There's another thing. It's Christmas, yet she hasn't managed to talk herself into apologizing to Tara and Blaze for the way she treated them. On that wretched Saturday afternoon when she apparently lost her mind.
It's hard to apologize to those girls, though, even on Christmas. One reason is that it's just not in her character, so it'll cause an embarrassing fuss.
The worst reason, though, is that apologizing to them about these specific events would (indirectly) include admitting that she has any feelings at all for a certain oaf.
So once again, she finds herself postponing the apologies. There will be no Christmas miracle for Tara and Larke.
Without much enthusiasm, Bianca starts singing the carols with everyone else again. Trying to pretend everything's normal.
The following week, she finds him out on the Teen Club golf course. He's playing a solitary, fumbling round of what passes for golf in his perception.
When he looks up and sees her approaching, she can tell that he can't quite believe what he's seeing.
Bianca can't blame him, she supposes. Even though he looks foolish, standing with his mouth open like that, and even though his ball is rolling into the pond, forgotten.
She doesn't usually seek him out during the holidays like this. She usually calls him up and has him come to her house to pick her up, if she wants anything.
"What are you doing out here, all by yourself?" she asks when she reaches him, her voice softer than she planned for it to be.
Wilshire clears his throat. "Uhm…I just like to come here sometimes when it's kinda empty. It's a good thinking spot."
She instantly gets the urge to say that she can't imagine he ever gets much thinking done, regardless of his location, but she holds back. It feels like an empty knee-jerk reaction, rather than a sardonic witticism. And not only that, but after everything that's happened lately, it doesn't even feel true. It seems Wilshire Brentwood can get quite a bit of thinking done, actually; at least when he really needs to.
So instead, she decides to get straight to the point. "Wilshire…are you going to the Teen Club New Year's Eve party?"
Sighing, he shoots her an apologetic glance before he starts lining up his shot. "No, I'm afraid I can't."
She draws in a sharp breath. "If it's about the orphans comment—"
"No, I mean I really can't go. I can't afford the ticket. I'm broke. I spent my entire monthly allowance, and I won't get any more money until January."
"You what?" Her eyes flash, her voice rising in volume and sharpness. "What did you do, spend it all on crazy Christmas presents for every last great aunt and nephew twice removed? Buy yourself a truckload of chocolate truffle marzipan pigs? What?"
Cringing at her tone, he straightens up, knowing he's done with golf for today. "No, I donated it all to local charities and orphanages," he explains, as he puts away his golf club, turning to her to give her his full attention. "All fifty grand. And the two and a half million I had left from the savings in my piggy bank."
Bianca is staring at him now, shaking her head. "Wilshire, I know it's the season and all, but there's no reason to get completely carried away!"
Shrugging, he smiles helplessly at her. "I just felt like giving. Oh, Bianca, you should have seen the looks on their faces! It was such a good feeling. I love helping people, but nobody seems to want my help. I screw things up too often. But not even I can ruin a simple cash donation. I don't mind spending New Year's Eve alone. The thought of what I did for those people, how I helped them improve their lives…it was so worth it!"
"But I do!"
"What?"
"I do mind spending New Year's Eve alone!" she elaborates, her hands moving up to rest sternly on her hips. "Mommy and Daddy are going to New York for Aunt Hortense's annual New Year's party, and— and if I do go to the Teen Club, who's going to take me? Who's going to dance with me?"
For a moment, he looks as if he's not sure he's heard her correctly. Then his eyes go wide. "Dance? You…you mean you wanted to go together? Like, really together?"
As he takes an eager step forward, she takes two steps back, her arms falling back down from her hips. Her eyes are as big as his now, but not for the same reason. "W-well, everyone else seems to have a date, and I didn't want to be the only one showing up alone! It'd be so embarrassing!"
His hopeful expression fades. "Oh…you're only asking me because everyone else is taken?"
Bianca groans. "No, I just…thought it might not be…entirely terrible. Going with you."
Wilshire gasps. "Bianca…are you saying you really do want to celebrate the new year with me?" Reaching out, he takes her hands in his. "To venture into the future together?"
Taking another step back, she pulls her hand out of his. There he goes again. She can't handle it anymore, if she ever could. "See, this is why I can't talk to you sometimes! You don't listen, you only want to interpret everything I say through some sort of gossamer romance filter!"
"I thought girls liked romance?" he tries, backing it up with an awkward smile.
When he takes a small step towards her, as if he might take reach for her hand again, she plants her hand in the middle of his chest. Her arm is fully outstretched, stopping him. She can't just keep retreating, not when he's like this. "We do— I mean, I do— but there's a time and a place and, above all, a limit! Listen to what you're even saying! Don't over-interpret everything I say! I just said it might be okay to go together to that one party— and that's all I said and all I meant!"
Finally, he backs off, a shot of shame going through him. It seems he's overdoing it again. She's finally said yes to something, anything at all, when it comes to him, yet he was about to destroy it by being clingy and overeager. By daydreaming. Repelling her, and rightfully so. He's come to realize, from observing the other teens over the years, that she's not the only one who doesn't appreciate that kind of behavior. So it's not that he doesn't know. It's just that he can't always seem to control himself around her.
"You're right, Bianca— I'm sorry for reading too much into things, I really am— and come to think of it, I'm sorry I spent all my money, I'm sorry I didn't think to at least save some money for the ticket, but I got carried away—"
"You mean like you always do?"
"—but the ticket was 4000 dollars, and yesterday I met this little girl with kidney failure, who desperately needed a 200 000 dollar kidney transplant, so I had to scrape together all the money I had left. I couldn't spare a dollar. I'm sorry, Bianca."
She hesitates. "A little girl? Um…how old was she?"
"Five. She said she's starting school next year."
"Oh." Bianca frowns. She's an only child and the youngest in her family, and she's never babysat anyone, so she doesn't have much of a frame of reference. Several of those children she met at Christmas Eve, though, surely weren't older than five. And somebody that tiny simply…ceasing to be…well, this isn't exactly the happiest thought that has ever crossed her mind.
When Bianca Dupree was five, an army of doctors and nurses would have sprinted to her side if she as much as coughed.
"Bianca?"
"Uh…yes?"
"If you want, I could try asking my parents for a small advance from my next allowance, so we can attend the party after all," he offers, wringing his hands a little. "I doubt they'll say yes, though, because they're pretty strict about it." When she doesn't reply, he glances at her, pauses to swallow, and then barrels on. "Or maybe— I mean, if it's not too forward, you could come celebrate New Year's Eve at my house? The neighbors usually have these awesome fireworks—"
Bianca gapes at him. "And miss the most important social event of the year? Are you crazy? I already bought the ticket!"
Ducking his head, Wilshire cringes. "It was just a suggestion…"
Bianca sighs. "Okay…how about this suggestion? I can pay for your ticket. Then we can both go."
He seems to jolt a little at that. "Y-you can?"
"Well, it'd only be a loan, you know— I expect to get the money back in January!" she hastens to explain. The incredulity on his face and his searching eyes are flustering her.
She should've known he'd react like that. Doesn't he know that things would be so much easier if he'd just— can't he just fake it and play it cool, like a normal teenage boy? So often, having this much influence over his emotions has made her feel so powerful, but these days, it's just uncomfortable.
His entire face lights up. "Yes, Bianca, I understand— oh, Bianca, you're much too good to me!"
There's a stab of guilt in her heart so sharp it nearly makes her visibly wince. He always says that, no matter how tiny a crumb she throws his way. "D-did I say loan? I meant…gift! Yes. Think of it as a gift. It is the holidays, after all."
Now he looks completely overwhelmed. "Oh, Bianca! It'll be amazing! We'll dance, we'll eat, we'll drink, we'll watch the ball drop, and then, at Midnight—"
"I'm not kissing you at Midnight, Wilshire," she rushes to cut him off.
He pauses. "Oh. I was just going to say we'll watch Chester's annual fireworks display, but…" He bites his lip. "Thanks for letting me know in advance."
"Wilshire…" Bianca closes her eyes, repressing the urge to groan. He said he didn't expect anything. There was no need to shut him down. But considering how he got carried away and misinterpreted her invite earlier, no matter how quickly he reeled it back in, she supposes she can't really blame herself for feeling wary.
"What do you think Chester's fireworks will look like this year?" he goes on, sounding almost casual. Almost. "I bet they'll have themes from all the different countries that competed in the Silver Spoon races. What do you think?"
"Stop it, Wilshire. I've asked you to a party. I'm even paying for the ticket. What more do you want from me?"
He pauses, bewildered. "What do you mean, Bianca?"
"I detest it when you look and sound so mopey and sad."
"I'm sorry, Bianca, I wasn't aware I was doing it. I'll stop right away. Just…what exactly am I doing?"
She gestures uncertainly at his face and upper body. "You go sort of pale, and your voice is all tiny, and it's like the light dies in your eyes, and your posture gets even more terrible than usual…!"
Wilshire immediately straightens his back. "I'm really sorry, Bianca, I don't know why I'm— like I told you, I don't expect anything, I never expect anything, I just— please, I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful, because— because I couldn't be happier, I'm looking so much forward to this party, and I— I couldn't be happier! Honestly!"
Bianca only sighs harder. "Yes, you could, you liar!"
"I could? H-how?"
For a couple of seconds, she grits her teeth, regretting the words. Regretting the display of guilt. Somewhat relieved that he doesn't seem to be picking up on it. "Never mind," she mutters, opening her purse and removing a few bills. "Here's the money. Now go get yourself a ticket before they run out, hmm? I promise you I won't be pleased if you can't get in."
Wilshire shuffles through the bills with a practiced hand. "This is ten thousand dollars," he says, looking up at her in confusion.
She's patting her hair now, and doesn't even glance at him. "Is it?"
"The ticket only costs four."
"Does it?"
"Yes, so what am I supposed to do with the other six thou—?"
He cuts himself off. She's already walking away, as if she didn't even hear him speak.
It's not until she's left that he realizes that, when he interrupted her earlier, she might have been trying to apologize for her insensitive comment about orphans. In her own way.
Practically everybody's wearing the silly party hats that Blaze and Tara have been handing out for the New Year's Eve party. Everybody except Bianca, who subjected the hats to an overbearing look until Blaze and Tara gave up and left.
And everybody except Wilshire.
Wilshire enjoys hats, and he's worn them many times. For driving, for boating, for golfing, for skiing and for costume parties. No matter his usual love for hats, though, this time he resists the temptation. He knows he has to look as non-silly as he can manage. Knows he has to make a good impression.
His tuxedo might be last year's model, but it's dry cleaned and (luckily) still fits him like a glove. He's made a point of avoiding the messier foodstuffs tonight to ensure it stays spotless, too.
He's even remembered to tie his shoes properly, for once.
So, no. There will be no stupid hats.
There will only be a straight, decisive path to where Bianca is standing, chatting to Shanelle, who looks vaguely cornered.
"Bianca?"
"What?" When Bianca turns, Shanelle only hesitates half a second before taking the opportunity to slip away.
He holds out his hand to Bianca. "May I have this dance?"
For a moment, she studies him as if his hair, face, tuxedo, hands and shoes are items on a inventory list. He swears he can feel a thin layer of cold sweat starting to form on his lower back.
Then she offers her hand, the wrist curved in a dainty arch. "You may," she says, giving regal permission.
Taking her hand in his, he leads her out on the dance floor, winding them through the crowd with surprising smoothness, until they find a vacant spot. Maybe he's not particularly assertive, Bianca thinks, but he does have the advantage of physical breadth and height. Then again, it occurs to her that at least sometimes, he can be plenty assertive if it's on her behalf.
There's a moment of awkwardness as they fumble a little, trying to figure out where to place their hands. Then they're off. Dancing. The song is romantic, but also a little peppy; it's not quite a slow dance, but not far from it.
"You know, you're actually not terrible at this," she says, somewhat grudgingly.
"Mom made me take lessons when I was younger," he tells her, shrugging one shoulder with a touch of modesty.
"I didn't know that."
"Well…we've never actually danced before. You and me."
"Surely we must've danced at least once?" She finds herself earnestly surprised at this. Nobody's reacting to seeing them dancing now, so it can't be completely unheard of, right? Or is it just the fact that they're so used to seeing Wilshire arriving at functions with her that they're just not giving it a second thought?
"I'm afraid not. Believe me, I would've remembered." He sighs, a dreamy look crossing his face for a moment, before being replaced by a more regretful one. "You always say no. One time, you said that if I was even half as hopeless at dancing as I was at everything else, I'd be a hazard to your new Manolo Blahniks."
Other than a small frown line appearing on her brow, she appears unruffled by this anecdote. "Ah. Well. That does sound like me."
"Another time, you said you'd rather be a wallflower than dance with me."
Bianca tilts her chin up in challenge. "And yet you keep asking."
"I haven't asked in a long, long time, actually," he reminds her, a somewhat sad note entering his voice.
"That's true. So even you can take a hint once in a while?"
"I'm not sure if it was a hint, as much as a big, red stop sign."
She raises her eyebrow at what she recognizes as one of his more cynical comments. They're incredibly rare, but that doesn't mean they're non-existent. "Can you blame me? Subtlety is usually lost on you."
He gives a sheepish grin, conceding to her point. "This time, though, I asked because I thought…um, when you invited me, you said you wanted to dance, so…"
"So?"
"So I figured it might be okay for me to ask you again."
Bianca merely shrugs, and they keep dancing.
When the song ends, he's certain she'll pry her hand out of his and make a cool, collected retreat from the dance floor. Possibly she'll go freshen up. Possibly order him to get her some punch.
She doesn't.
When a slower number comes on next, she steps closer and calmly rearranges their arms. When she leans her head on his shoulder, he has no idea how he manages to keep his feet moving. How he manages to keep his lungs working.
His mouth is dry, and his face feels numb. He knows he'll ruin everything by speaking, but somehow, he needs the words. Needs to convince himself that this is actually happening. That this is all real. He supposes he could ask her to pinch him, but that might be going too far. Besides, those perfectly manicured nails of hers are sharp.
Before he can even think of a subject, though, she speaks.
"What did you use the rest of the money for? You obviously didn't spend it on a new tuxedo."
He almost stumbles in his dance steps, wondering if he's somehow misinterpreted. Somehow gone against her wishes. "D-did you want me to buy a new tuxedo with the rest of the cash?"
Bianca utters a careless little tut of a noise. "I'm sure it's none of my business what you do with your own money. Like I said, it was a gift."
Wilshire relaxes slightly. "In that case…I spent it doing some more charity work."
He's not sure, but as she lifts her head to glance at him, he thinks he can see the corner of her mouth turning up a little. "Hmm."
It seems she knew exactly where the money was going when she gave it to him. It occurs to him that this might have been her way of apologizing for her insensitive comment about orphans. Without having to actually say it out loud. As apologies go, it's definitely worth a lot more to the orphans than a simple 'sorry' said in private to him. Cash will do a lot more good.
"I never asked, by the way..." she ventures, a note of genuine curiosity buried somewhere beneath the usual layers of blasé. "How did this spirit of generosity possess you to begin with, anyway? I mean, yes, it's the holidays, but…still. I've never seen you like this before."
"Well…part of it was that visit to the orphanage, and part of it was talking to the manager there." He's studying her face warily as he speaks, and finds some actual, honest interest there. This is what makes him confess the rest of it. "Another reason, though, was me being inspired by you."
The curiosity in her face and voices doubles, although there's still a hint of aloofness there. "Me? How so?"
"Back when I was afraid my parents might disown me, you offered to take care of me if they did."
"I did?"
"Yes, you told me you'd start paying me for the work I do for you, so I could provide for myself."
"Ah." A guilty expression twists her face somewhat, as she meets his adoring, respectful eyes. In the past, she's threatened him with making him pay for the privilege of driving her around, instead of getting to do so free of charge. Now, she somehow finds she's no longer able to be quite as callous. "I'm not sure if…if offering to finally pay somebody for the work they've been doing for free for years…well, it might not be the height of generosity," she says weakly.
"Oh. Well…I suppose I might've also assumed that you'd have probably let me live on the premises as well. In a guest room. Or in the pool house."
"Oh! Yes. Of course," Bianca rushes to agree, pretending this was what she intended all along. Attempting to pave over the bumpy road of her selfishness. Although, come to think of it, they do have several servants living on the premises, so maybe it was what she meant. Even though she hadn't specifically stated it.
Yes. There. That feels better.
"Either way, I just thought…it was so sweet of you to offer. You didn't have to. So it moved me."
Bianca's stomach twists. He actually looks up to her. That's the thing. He doesn't just love her, he admires her. And sure, she is beautiful, rich, athletic, clever and talented, but…is she really somebody to look up to when it comes to things like charity? Compassion?
"I wouldn't have made you live in the pool house, if it ever came to it," she hears herself saying, then. "I would've given you a guest room. The big one," she adds, feeling delirious for a second. Wondering where all this sudden and almost nauseating generosity is coming from. "One of the ones with its own bathroom. The really good bathroom."
He blinks. "You mean…the one next to yours?"
This gives her pause. "Uh…well, I just thought…you're a Brentwood. You should be able to keep up a lifestyle that somewhat resembles the one to which you were accustomed. Besides," she hurries to continue, "if you did get disowned, then I guess it would…technically be my fault, wouldn't it? So…I suppose it'd be the least I could do."
He seems genuinely puzzled at that. "Oh. I hadn't looked at it like that."
"How?"
"I don't know. That you would owe me anything? I'm so used to me doing things for you, and me always being the one at fault. It's so weird to think that you might do something for me. Especially because you'd admitted to doing something wrong. I mean…I'm usually the one's who's…wrong."
Bianca draws a quick, shallow breath. Wilshire being Wrong and her being Right is hardly a new arrangement. The way he's describing it now, though, almost matter-of-fact in his downtrodden attitude, makes her gut twist. These days, their usual dynamic seems to bother her about as much as it comforts her.
They keep dancing, and almost a full minute goes by before he realizes how quiet she's being. When he looks up, she's sort of just…staring blankly into space. Worried, he stops dancing to look at her. Almost immediately, however, she releases his hand and takes a step back.
"…Bianca?"
Blinking up at him, she feels oddly detached. "Wilshire," she asks in an airy tone, "could you go get me some punch?"
"Oh! O-of course, Bianca, I didn't realize you were thirsty—"
Her voice takes on a frosty edge. "Well, I am. There are some chairs over there. I'll be right there waiting. Oh, and…Wilshire?"
"Yes, Bianca?"
"Do try not to trip and fall on your way back here, will you? This dress was made from the finest Japanese silk, and these days I just can't seem to find a decent dry cleaner in this town."
Wilshire's face feels abruptly hot. Bianca still assumes he'll mess up. And considering his track record, he can't exactly blame her. He just wishes she wouldn't put it quite so coldly.
He bows his head to hide his red cheeks. "I'll…make sure you get your punch, Bianca," he says as he excuses himself. He doesn't look back as he starts making his way through the crowd.
When he reaches the refreshment tables, he's relieved that she can no longer see him.
She's changed. She has. She isn't always dismissive of him. She seems to actually be contemplating him and taking him into account. She's even managed to give him a few kind gestures here and there. It's obvious, though, that she's having trouble.
He doesn't know what it was this time. It could be anything. Maybe she feels she went too far in dancing with him, or putting her head on his shoulder, or even in inviting him here in the first place. Or maybe it was something she said, or he said. Whatever it is, she regrets something.
She's conflicted. She's running hot and cold. Whatever she's feeling, she's struggling with it. There are things there that she doesn't want to communicate to him. She's still resorting to coldness, to lashing out. She's still Bianca Dupree.
Maybe other, more confident and cleverer young men would know what to do, what to say to her.
He still doesn't, despite having practically been her human shadow for years. He supposes this makes him even slower on the uptake than he thought he was.
Then again, he knows he's not the only one who has trouble understanding Bianca. The others probably spend more time than they would like, either thinking about, talking about or trying to deal with Bianca. She might not be popular, but she's anything but insignificant. In many ways, she's the dynamo that so many events at the Teen Club revolve around. She's the one they'll be talking about for years to come; probably even more than they'll be talking about Larke Tanner or Troy Jeffries. Bianca Dupree will definitely have left an impression.
Even though Larke Tanner may seem naïve or too kind, sometimes Wilshire thinks that she might be the only one who's managed to figure it out. How to handle Bianca Dupree. Most of the time, she just takes whatever Bianca says and does in stride, and waits for her to sabotage herself. Of course, sometimes it's too much even for Larke Tanner.
And right now, it's too much even for Wilshire Brentwood.
He doesn't know what she wants. He also knows that asking her won't do any good, and that she's not going to tell him on her own, either.
He's stuck.
Troy Jeffries is out of the picture, yet he's still stuck.
Wilshire draws a breath.
Never mind, though, right? It's not like he didn't know it still wasn't going to be easy.
His hand is shaking as he ladles punch into a cup for Bianca. Some of the cherry red liquid splashes his dress pants, soaking clean through them at the right knee. Replacing the ladle and cup, he mutters some rather tame curse words as he wipes at his pants with a napkin. Luckily, the pants are black, and the lights in the room are dim, so it's not very noticeable.
If he were to do a repeat performance on Bianca's light pink dress, however…
He doesn't even want to think about what might happen then— although, certain unpleasant images from Carrie come inevitably to mind. He still regrets letting his cousin talk him into seeing that movie a few years back.
Finding a waiter in the crowd, he taps the man on his shoulder. "Excuse me, could you please take a cup of punch to Miss Bianca Dupree for me?" he asks, before adding, "The girl with the long raven hair and the long, pink silk dress?"
It seems he needn't have given the description, however; the waiter is already nodding. "Miss Dupree, yes. I'll see to it, Mr. Brentwood."
Of course. He should've known. Bianca's infamous, especially among the Teen Club wait staff. And by extension, it appears that so is he.
"Thanks," he says, nodding gratefully before escaping out on the terrace to take a short breather.
When it's fifteen minutes to twelve, he approaches her again. Clearing his throat and keeping a respectful distance.
"Bianca? It's, uh…it's almost midnight."
"I know," she says, not even turning around to look at him, "there's a giant clock on the wall. Just in case you haven't noticed."
He flushes. "Uh, no, I just…I just thought maybe…"
Finally, she turns, and those ice green eyes pierce him, turning his stomach into a clenching, anxious thing. "You changed your mind and thought you'd pester me about kissing you after all, hmm?"
His gaze drops. "No, I just…thought maybe you'd like to watch the fireworks together."
"You mean to imply I wouldn't have done so without you? You mean to imply I'm waiting for you, Wilshire? And what do you mean, together? What, with you and about three hundred other people?"
Now she's being unfair, even for her, and it pushes him to react. He swallows. Sets his jaw. Meets her eyes. Frowns slightly at her. "You know what I mean, Bianca," he says, as calmly as he can manage.
A hint of wounded pride flashes in her eyes. "Do I? Then what was the meaning of disappearing on me like that?"
Now her acidity makes a little more sense. "I'm sorry, I just…I needed some air."
Bianca hesitates. She's not used to him taking any time off for himself. He usually only takes breaks when she's busy with something, or when his family sends him on some trip or the other.
"I was only gone for ten minutes," Wilshire goes on, his eyes pleading.
She tilts her chin up. "Very well. Get my wrap, will you? I'm sure it's freezing out there."
She can tell he barely dares to smile; it zips across his face and vanishes in a second. "Of course, Bianca."
As they're walking out on to the terrace, he decides to ask her something else. He must be crazy. Things are going so well, she's said yes to watching the fireworks with him and everything— he shouldn't push his luck. On the other hand, she might say yes again. Right?
"Bianca?"
"What?"
He grits his teeth for a second; her tone doesn't sound promising. "Um...next week, there's a New Year's charity event for the Beverly Hills teen homeless shelter…"
"So?"
"So I was wondering if…maybe you'd like to join me?"
"What for? I suppose you need some more money to throw away?"
"Oh, no, I get my allowance on the first every month, so I'll have plenty of money by tomorrow."
Her sidelong glance is suspicious. "Then what do you expect me to do?"
"I don't know, I suppose I just thought…maybe you'd like to volunteer?" he suggests, his voice suddenly sounding much higher and less confident than he wanted.
Tossing her hair, she does an elegant little half-turn towards him, coming to a halt out on the terrace. Pinning him with a laser beam of a look. "And here I thought you always agreed that Bianca Dupree doesn't work?"
"Oh, don't get me wrong, I wouldn't let you do any of the hard work! I'd do all that for you!" he explains urgently, before calming down a little. "I just…I guess I've been reevaluating my life a little this week…and I can't help but want you to be part of that. And, I mean…you're a capable woman, Bianca. Maybe it's wrong to keep yourself from showing people all the things you can do. Maybe you shouldn't be afraid of a little work."
She narrows her eyes further, determined not to be swayed by his compliments. Coming from anyone else, it would sound like a blatant attempt at manipulation through shallow flattery, but Wilshire's not capable of that. Probably. "What kind of work?"
"I hear they could use some new clothes. And the common room needs redecorating. I just thought…what with your refined taste…."
There's a pause, during which she purses her lips at him. He sounds nothing but earnest, and she knows he really does think that way about her. However, even if the compliments are true, it can still be a form of manipulation. But she supposes it's more like bargaining or pleading than trickery.
Then she nods curtly. "Fine. I'll think about it."
He shoots her a relieved little smile; at least she didn't outright reject the idea. "Thank you so much."
Bianca doesn't know how to respond to this gratitude; can't even seem to make her lips echo his smile. Fortunately, she doesn't have to say anything.
"TEN! NINE!"
The countdown to the fireworks has begun. Everyone around them has started whispering and talking in excitement and anticipation.
"Bianca? Can I hold your hand?"
"EIGHT!"
"What?"
"I said, can I—?"
"SEVEN! SIX!"
"What?"
He should have asked her before the countdown started. Groaning in frustration at his own stupidity, Wilshire shakes his head and shrugs. Silently telling her it was nothing.
"FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!"
A deafening cheer rises from the crowd as the fireworks go off, illuminating the night sky in intense bursts of color.
Bianca glances over at the other teens surrounding them. Now, there are plenty of others kissing each other with great enthusiasm. Even Gig and Jett seem not to follow their usual "no work romances" rule. It seems that New Year's Eve is the exception.
Even Switchboard's standing with her back to them, busy filming the fireworks. How will anybody even notice it if she does kiss Wilshire, in this large crowd of people?
A flash of long, naturally blonde hair catches her eyes, then. As she stares at Larke and Troy kissing under the flashing lights, her throat and chest tighten with some strange sense of performance pressure. It's similar to the pressure she always feels when pitted against her rival, except more intense. More important. It's not just about Larke, or even about Bianca's ego.
Bianca turns to Wilshire, and for a second, she almost considers asking him to dip her. Knowing him, though, he'll only trip over his own feet, and the marble terrace floor wouldn't be a comfy cushion to break their fall.
Then she considers grabbing his jacket and crushing her lips to his. Which might end in accidental head butting, or even a cracked tooth or two.
He's looking at her, and she can tell he's trying not to look too expectant. He's not succeeding.
All thoughts of dramatic kisses fly out of her mind as she studies his expression. His failed attempts at hiding the hope he can never quite kill. The ever present tension; the fear of being reprimanded or punished.
No, she'll keep her word. She insisted she wasn't going to kiss him at midnight. But again, she has to do something, even if she can't do much. Not just for him, but for herself.
She leans into his side and reaches out blindly for his hand. When her fingers find his sleeve, fumbling downwards, she can feel him trembling. Her name escapes him, in what can almost be described as a whimper.
If he tries to make a big, sappy (and very public) deal out of this, she swears she'll plant her sharp nails right into his arm. She decides not to; can already imagine his shrill yelp echoing across the terrace.
When it comes to him, why are almost all her first impulses at least hard and unyielding, if not directly mean?
To her amazement, though, she doesn't have to do anything. He's already reaching out, meeting her halfway to take her hand in his. His cheeks glowing, he gently threads their fingers together.
Wilshire's mind is buzzing as she actually smiles at him, slowly and shyly. He can't believe he took that step, that he managed to realize what she was going to do and rushed in to do it first. That he dared to take any kind of real initiative with her. Wilshire Brentwood very rarely feels proud of himself, but now is one of those rare occasions.
The urge to declare his undying love to her, right then and there, is abrupt and overpowering. But there are limits, he feels, even to his masochistic tendencies.
Closing her eyes, Bianca allows herself to take a moment. Allows herself to grasp his arm with her free hand, resting her palm on the crook of his elbow, and her head on his shoulder.
"Happy New Year, Wilshire," she says, right by his ear.
All he can manage is a strangled "yes", nodding dumbly. It takes a while for him to pull himself together.
"Happy New Year, Bianca."
It's not a New Year's Eve kiss, he thinks, but it's not nothing. It's really something.
When the last Teen Club fireworks are fading away, Bianca lets go of his hand. Puts a step of distance between them.
The moment is over. Still…the simple fact that there even was a moment at all, saddles him with more of that pesky, pesky hope.