"The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet."
-Andy Warhol
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Chapter IV: The Game of Appeal and Chance
Mondays are always so despicable. This morning alone she has scalded herself twice with coffee, fallen down the stairs and jerked on her stubborn locker door so hard it wrenched open and gashed her forehead – meriting a few indiscreet sniggers from a crowd of cheerleaders watching with their "Venti" cappuccinos. Let it go. Just … let it go. Who cares if they're flawless – I bet you they … uh … I bet you … I bet you they'll wet themselves in a spastic energy fit with that twenty ounces of caffeine in their perfect, shapely bodies. Yeah. That'll teach them. Stop talking to yourself.
And now, for another prime example - upon checking her schedule - she realizes what two classes she has the honor of assisting today. Literature and gym. Both within the first two morning periods. Suddenly, the urge to curl up into a corner and wait for faculty to usher her into the counselor's office is alluring. When in doubt, look psychotic – it will work miracles. Corealie's advice. Better not take it then. On the other hand, she does not want to see Squall and Ashley after Saturday's episode. The rest of the encounter inched by with her blushing and mumbling responses to his attempt at conversation. Needless to say, she went home wanting to drown herself in the toilet.
There is also Matthew to avoid. She hasn't spoken to him since Friday evening. Another incident referred to as that night. Rinoa refuses to acknowledge it as anything more because it was, in fact, nothing more. Pain, the only part deemed worthy of being remembered for future reference. Other than that, watching televised golf with a talking marmot may have been more interesting, and less awkward. Anyway, she doesn't want to think about it anymore or she will end up in the counselor's office.
Rinoa looks at her reflection in the shiny, graffiti-ed surface of her locker door and sighs. Above her head, in permanent marker it reads, 'Sean K. is a looser.' Before closing the door and placing the familiar lock, she mutters to herself, "Rinoa H. is a looooser."
Literature drags by painfully, "Ibsen clearly identifies Hedda as someone who is bored of her own, limited world though she is aware that she cannot seek out other thrills than those currently available to her. She is unwilling to take the risk, fearing the unknown – fearing scandal, fearing exclusion of a society that made her so powerful, so untouchable."
"Mr. Garrison … I have a question." Zell raises his hand high and even waves it around for extra effect, "I don't understand how … any of this is going to help me later on in life. Like seriously. No idea. Maybe the prophet wants to give her ol' theology talent another show-off?" A few people laugh and most turn to see Rinoa's facial expression. Stoic. They can smell fear.
The bells rings. Can they smell relief?
She hopes not as she stacks her books, the endless plays and novels that she must decipher and dissect by the end of the term. She meets up with Corealie in the hallway, "Rinoa, what is up with you lately?" Her cousin asks, annoyed as they round a corner towards the gymnasium, "You look bloody depressed and quiet – more than usual. Yesterday, you stapled my fingers … you, like, never get violent. What is up with that?"
"You were crossing a very sensitive line." Rinoa admits, broodingly.
"How? By exposing your closet-addiction to your brother's, like, GameBoy?" Corealie stops by a garbage to dump her algebra homework and falls back in pace with Rinoa, "Rin, that was a joke and honestly – I think he got it too. Plus, I have something serious to talk to you about." She pushes her into a desolate hallway lined with grey lockers; some of them open with personal effects spilling out.
"When you look at yourself in the mirror, what do you see?" Rinoa just raises an eyebrow – a feat that had taken some good hours of practice back in grade five. Corealie looks impatient, "No, seriously, when you look at yourself in the goddamn mirror – as I'm sure you must – what do you see?" No answer.
Her cousin ignores this and goes on anyway, "Rinoa, I was just thinking … that 'same planet' crap that you fed to me, like, last Friday before Matthew came over – that's just what I said it was: crap." She gesticulates towards the ceiling as if the action is supposed to support the metaphor, "I don't know what you think is wrong with you but if you think Squall Leonhart is out of your league: wake up. If you wanted to date, like, Anakin Skywalker, then I may have a few choice comments but you want to date the captain of the Riverside High school soccer team … stop thinking you're not good enough. And for God's sake, stop acting like you're happy and start feeling it."
"Corealie, mind your own business."
The sudden boldness in her cousin's reply is shocking but does not hinder the point she is attempting to convey, "This is my business. I care. I grew up with you. You take a lot more shit than you deserve. I swear, I so totally care, Rinoa. I do. What are you going to do? Date mommy's boys like Matthew your whole life and tell yourself they'll just have to do? I know you don't love him, hell, sometimes I wonder if you like him. Why don't you just …"
The second period bell sounds threateningly from down the hall and a few classroom doors are heard slamming shut, "We're late for gym." Rinoa remarks apathetically and begins walking in the right direction again.
Corealie trails behind, frustrated.
"And why are you young ladies late for class?" Mr. Spencer stands tall, a basketball dribbling at his side. They come into the vast gym, changed and ten minutes behind schedule.
"Well, sir, it happened like this, you see …" Corealie began, making wild gestures to promise the audience that this story would be a good one.
"No, Corealie, we all know you're a brilliant storyteller. But I'm also not dense enough to know you specialize in fiction. In fact, we've tossed a couple of remarks in the staffroom and everyone mostly agrees. Why doesn't Heartilly come up with the excuse this time? Wouldn't that be a change?" Mr. Spencer stops dribbling the ball and looks at the shorter girl expectantly.
What is with teachers and chewing me out these days? Rinoa pauses and then explains in a smooth, projecting voice that surprises everyone, "Corealie has a girl problem today, Mr. Spencer. It makes her over-emotional and extremely difficult to deal with. I believe the technical term for it is-"
"Oh, cruel, cruel belligerent world!" Corealie cries out, over-exaggeratingly and throws herself to her knees, sobbing and hiccupping. She would be phenomenal in a Shakespearian drama. Rinoa returns to her regular self and blushes, putting a hand to her face. Idiot. You goddamn idiot.
The class explodes into uproarious laughter and cheers. Everyone has always liked Corealie's vociferous manner, her stage-presence, especially her roles in school plays. "What a character!" Perhaps, but this is what gives them away.
"Well, that was entertaining, thank you, girls. I'll see you at the end of class where you'll volunteer your recess to clean up the vast amount of equipment we'll be using today." Mr. Spencer smiles a toothy grin and tosses the basketball to an expecting classmate, "And now for today's lesson. Everyone loves basketball …"
"Why did you have to ruin everything?" Rinoa asks calmly, an hour later as they leave the changing room and go back into the gym to pick up after their classmates, as instructed by Mr. Spencer. "Clearly, we could've gotten away with it if you hadn't had that highly acclaimed outburst." She slowly strides to a basketball and kicks it, a moment outside her personality.
"I'm sorry. It was against my nature to remain silent." Corealie replies smugly and picks up two orange balls to carry them off to the storage room across the expansive gymnasium. Rinoa keeps pushing the balls towards the other end of the room with the tip of her feet, sighing and muttering to herself.
Corealie returns from the storage room and for a fleeting moment, has an imperceptible look of bewilderment on her face, "Oh, hey, Rinoa, I just remembered … I have to go see my history teacher before I have him next period … you understand, right?" And with that she jogs away and out of the gym.
Rinoa whirls around to call out something fairly rude but the words get caught in her throat. He is coming towards her. His running shoes falling solid on the green linoleum floor with different colored duck tape setting up borders for thousands of unknown sports, "Hey, Mocha-eyes, looks like your cousin just ditched you."
Mocha-eyes? Rinoa blushes, "Yeah. She does that a lot." Stammering with words, fiddling with her earring. Mocha-eyes?
"Need help?" He bends over and picks up a basketball, begins to dribble it like Mr. Spencer demonstrated.
She notices something. Oh … God … crap. Should I tell him? NO. Rinoa tries to stare him in the eyes without looking away, What should I do? I have to. I can't … LIVE with it. "Squall … um … the fly …"
"The fly?" He questions, awkwardly stopping the basketball. It hits his foot on the way back down and spins off away.
"Yeah. Your fly. It's … undone." Her head feels so hot, she worries it might explode in a colorful display of red embarrassment. Yeah, good job. Now try explaining to him what you were doing looking at his crotch.
Squall looks down and his eyes go wide, frowning, "Fuck." He zips it, not seeming discomfited by the event, "Christ, hope no one saw that." His blue eyes go back to hers, "So, like I was saying – need help?" His lack of shame over the event, his cool exterior. He cannot be humiliated. He is the most powerful entity she has ever conversed with. For a moment, she is enthralled, she is enamored.
"Help would be …" She begins slowly but inhales and then, it tumbles out into a cacophony of stupidity, "appreciated but isn't necessary, I mean, I'm sure you have millions of more important things to do because you have a life – not that I know what that is, but I'm sure it's more interesting than picking up balls like a dog. You don't look like a dog. Well, in my opinion anyway. Not that my opinion matters. I'm sorry. I'll shut up." She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw. Again, she blushes and puts her hand to her face, wincing.
He is smiling. It is the first time she has seen him smile, genuinely. "That's attractive."
"Huh?" She groans, mortified.
"I said, 'That's attractive'." He mimics her, touching the left side of his face with his right hand, "The way you just touch your eyebrow with the tips of your fingers every time you go red. That's attractive." Now, he is dead serious.
Her legs feel like jelly and she's about to pass out. Her stomach is pumping acid, every word coming from his mouth is making her comfortably numb, "Ahm … uh …" She flushes more but doesn't let her right hand move, denies the instinct. He'll think I'm doing it on purpose now. Shiiiiiiiit.
"So, I think we should start cleaning if we plan to finish, eh?"
He does most of it; she lags behind, dropping balls. There's nothing to clean up in the gym, she's the bigger mess. When it's finished and the last ball is tossed into the bag, he turns to her again, "So, Mocha-eyes, what're you doing this Friday?" He taps his palms together and begins striding out of the room.
"I … uh … I don't know what I'm doing." She answers stupidly, wanting to take it back immediately. I'm going to this super cool party at a mansion with my Hummer, want to hop in for the ride? There will be sweet music and awesome drinks laced with lots of drugs. Yeah. I do drugs. Aren't I cool?
"Awesome, mind if I join you?" He asks, smirking again.
For a second, she believes she's actually said the lie about the party aloud, she freezes, "I … what?"
"You plan on eating dinner?" He's asking too many questions that don't necessarily relate to one another. She's lost in the ocean. His sea. His dark, blue eyes that drown her.
"I thought … it … may have been a good idea. I haven't really thought of it." She stutters unconfidently, unsure of where this is going – if it is, indeed, going somewhere in the first place.
"Well, if you want to go for some Italian, I know a really good place. I've been kind of craving pasta for a week now. And after we could just sit through a movie or something, if that suits you for a Friday evening." He finishes and stares at her. He isn't joking. There isn't even a hint of smile either. It's as if he's discussing business.
"I … yeah. I really like food. I mean … I like … pasta-food. Italian food." She winces at her blunder and attempts to clear her mind of what exactly has just happened. She's, as Corealie once put it, always five point nine seconds behind everyone else. In spite of common sense, she continues to speak, "So, I guess I'm having dinner then."
He nods, as if approving her decision, "Alright. I'll pick you up at five thirty, does that sound good?"
Does it sound good? Sounds like a dream come true.
You made the call
I step outside, cross that line
And I lose control
Because I've been waiting
It's beautiful to let go, don't you know?
You're everything I try to be
The rise and fall to respond to the call
I got butterflies
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Much to his dismay, Squall comes home on Wednesday night to find supper almost laid out for him. His mother stirs the contents of a brewing concoction, humming to herself happily, "What're you doing?" He asks, bluntly and his eyes wander to the adjacent living room in the search of his sister.
"I'm preparing supper." Raine answers casually, smiling to her son before uncorking various bottles of spices from the nearby rack.
"Why?" His question is harsh, cantankerous. He only wishes to chase her from the kitchen, tears in her unforgiving eyes. What the fuck is she up to?
"Oh, really! You're impossible, Squall!" His mother lets out a sigh but resumes her peppy attitude, "Because your father is coming home tonight – silly!" This is a new prospect for him. His "father" is coming "home". The concept is laughable really but he remains silent. Sabrina has just strut into the room, a prized teddy bear hanging limp from her arms.
"So?" He drawls, stalks to the fridge and drains the milk carton into his open mouth, "So?" Squall is forced to repeat himself, having received no worthy answer the first time around.
"So, I thought it would be nice to have a family dinner."
Squall snidely replaces the empty carton in the fridge and begins scrutinizing the contents of the cupboards. She even seems to have gone grocery shopping. He's appalled. Sure enough, Laguna – a clean-shaven, pinstripe-suited man with Squall's build – shows to dinner an hour later.
Squall watches his parents converse pleasantly. A whirlwind of disgust hits him, sitting in the pit of his stomach and urging him to vomit all over the nicely decorated table. But he remains stoic. His thoughts are elsewhere. There is an uneasiness within him for the first time in ages. He feels as though Heartilly has been avoiding him since Monday – but perhaps it's just paranoia? Squall decides to ignore the outstanding fact that he has never gotten jitters from a chick before.
The prospect of being rejected terrifies him. What would his friends say? Scandal. He finds himself frowning. He can disregard the verity that he is anxious but he can not, and will not discard the intolerable fact that he has never dwelled so long on a face before. Squall finds himself obsessively fascinated with the way her eyelashes curve so sensually, so perfectly as to not obstruct the earthy opals that glimmer.
In a certain light, her eyes glow with a particular sandy-copper color, conductive and glowing yet in another, they become darker, deeper … mocha. There is hidden attraction in this, something Ashley does not possess. And he finds himself drawn to her habits. The curious manner she has when she blushes, for one. He has also remarked that, in literature, she gazes listlessly at the edge of her desk and chews on her lower lip – something which he also finds inexplicably striking
Squall ponders these things until he is lying on his back in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. He is trying to convince himself that this force of gravity will wear off indolently after one good fuck. It is possible, after all, that he is only pulled towards her because of the rare charm's exotic scent. Yeah … just one, good fuck.
Friday night has sent her into a fit of panic. She has gotten home, called Matt, fed him some half-assed lie about spending time with a certain disheartened family member known as Corealie and hung up before he could question her further. Now, she is sitting in a corner of her room, terrified.
Ok. Something to wear. Nice Italian restaurant. What to wear? You have no clothes. You can't even apply make-up. You don't know how to socialize. What are you worth? Nothing. You are worthless. Society shuns dumb broads like you. Call him and cancel. No. You can't. Why? You didn't even get his number, you stupid, worthless, idiotic piece of cr-
The phone rings. She actually shrieks and then covers her mouth quickly. Her brother's head pops into the room and sneers, "You're such a freak. Are you going to get that? Or do you need a change of pants?" A shoe is thrown at the door.
"Get out, Mikey!" Rinoa manages through grit teeth and begins muttering, "Whymust his sole existence revolve around making my life completely and utterly miserable,– hello?" She has picked up the phone and awaits, with great dread, the voice on the other end.
"I hope you know, I lied for you." Corealie scoffs conspiratorially, "Matt called, asked me what was wrong with me … told me you said I was … disheartened? I fed a lie about a cute pool boy and his obnoxious girlfriend – he didn't seem to quite grasp or notice that we're in September and I have no need for cute pool boys anymore. So … why are you mendacious to the love of your life?"
"I'm not … 'mendacious' … to the love of my life. Particularly because I don't believe I've narrowed him down yet." Rinoa retorts, moodily, "And I'm not really lying. It's more like replacing select information. And I don't have time for your gloating sermons."
"But, Rinoa … you always have time for my gloating sermons!" Corealie exclaimed, near exasperation, "Unless …" And her voice revealed a tone of malicious cleverness, "Unless, you're going out tonight? Hmmm … ? Oh, I see how it is … who's the lucky number two?"
There was a silence from Rinoa's end where only deep, panicky breathes were being drawn, "Rinoa?" Corealie asked warily, "Are you hyperventilating?"
There was a frenzied whisper, " … I … don't know what to do – I'm so freaking out right now. Corealie, he's going to be here in an hour and a half!"
Author's Notes: I've never been so sore. I do not own Anakin Skywalker. Or Starbucks coffee sizes. This is not why I'm sore.
Lyrics featured in this chapter: 'Longshot' by Waking Ashland.