Marvelous, wonderful, incredible, prodigious. If you're reading or reviewing or doing both, those are only a few words-all synonmous with amazing-to describe you. Thanks for reading :)

Showdown

"So, are you going to the dance," Simon asked, wagging his eyebrows in my direction as we stood side by side, painting a tree, referring to the annual Christmas dance.

"The more appropriate question would be whether I want to go to the dance," I said glumly. Mila and Amber, either in an attempt to improve my dark mood or tired of my chronic sullenness, cornered me after school on Friday and did no less than threaten me into going with them. And Aunt Lauren wasn't any help either; when I shared my complaints with her, as opposed to reacting like a normal guardian who was aware that their child was failing math and therefore forbidding them to attend, she thought getting out would "be good fore me," and strongly suggested—forced—that I go.

He chuckled and threw me a sympathetic look.

"Derek's going to be there—dad's forcing him out of the house," he said hesitantly, though watching me keenly, as if he weren't sure how I would react to this information but was also intensely curious about my reaction.

I was surprised, the thought of Derek attending any form of social outing slightly shocking, and also intrigued. Why would his dad be forcing him out of the house? But my curiosity was reserved solely for me, to be shared with no one. For while, to the outside world, it seemed like I had forgotten Derek—which was my objective—that was anything but true in my world. I had confronted him on Tuesday, and now, exactly a week later, nothing had happened. Derek hadn't approached me and I was determined to forget about him. If he was intent on being thickheaded and resolute on staying angry, then I couldn't do anything about it and shouldn't waste any more time consumed by thoughts of him. But Derek was a hard person to forget, to not notice, and what made it all the more difficult was the fact that he had resumed looking at me. The only difference was that the emotion in his eyes was evident every time, and even when I caught him and glared back angrily, he stubbornly held my gaze for a few moments, expression unchanging, as if he wanted me to be aware of what he was feeling and, because his eyes were so expressive, what he was thinking. Sometimes I saw anger, other times worry. But there was also regret and longing. The longing made ignoring him and remaining angry the hardest, if only because I felt it too, but I managed. If Derek was sorry, or even if he just wanted to counter any of my arguments, then he would have to come and talk to me. I would not be the one crawling back. Not this time. The repent I saw was as satisfying as it was endearing; I was glad he was sorry—for he should be sorry—but he also looked like a sad, puppy, which, as an expression on Derek, was absolutely priceless.

"That's nice," I said off-handedly, not looking at him and continuing to aimlessly sweep my brush up and down.

He snorted in derisiveness, "Yeah right, Chloe. I bet that information means a lot more to you than you're letting on. But whatever, hold on to your pride. I'll save you the trouble of having to sacrifice it by being nice enough to tell you what you're probably dying to know."

"I didn't know you were a mind-reader," I said, mouth agape in fake shock. "Who needs biology when you already have access to a stable career," I asked teasingly, taking a jab at the scientific trouble he had that he frequently grumbled about.

"Wit won't get you what you want," he said reproachfully, though with amusement in his eyes.

I rolled my eyes and went back to my painting, trying in vein to reign in my now morbid curiosity. Taking a peek at him, he caught me and smiled. Looking rather smug, he said, "Our dad is forcing Derek out of the house because he's been in a black mood for the past week. Ever since you found out, he's been in a bad mood—snappy, irritable and a bit withdrawn. But ever since last Tuesday…" he trailed off, thoughts clearly somewhere else. Resuming, he finished, "Well, let's just say woe to the poor soul in Derek's wrath. Dad thinks that going out will be good for him."

I couldn't help but smile at the irony and when I shared it with Simon, he smiled, too.

"Seriously though, what happened," he asked, regaining a staid demeanor.

"We had a fight," I said vaguely.

"Chloe," he said, sounding disappointed. "I may be hopelessly failing biology, but I'm not that dense. What was the fight about?"

Sighing, I said, "A lot of things."

"Sometimes, Derek is, well he's Derek. He's stubbornly dense," he said, hoping to instill understanding. But I already understood. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that I was at a standstill; unable to let go when it seemed that was the only suitable thing to do.

I nodded gravely and wanting to change the topic, asked, "So which girl is it this week? Who's the lucky one who's being taken to the dance?"

Over the course of our drama classes together, Simon and I had grown fairly close. We weren't best friends and didn't really talk outside of class, but we acknowledged each other in the halls and whenever we did talk, conversation came easily. He was almost like the big brother I never had. We talked about a lot, nothing too important, though he recurrently shared, as he liked to call them, his "women problems" with me and I enjoyed teasing him about it.

"Actually," he said, throwing me a sly look, "I was wondering if you knew if your friend Mila was going with anybody?"

Laughing, I happily talked strategy with Simon, thoughts of Derek not forgotten, but no longer at the forefront of my mind.

Putting my things in my bag at the end of the day, I couldn't help but feel a slight sense of dread. I was going dress shopping with Mila and Amber. On a good day, I didn't enjoy shopping. The crowded mall, pushy salespeople and abundance of variety were overwhelming. But on a day like today—make that a week—shopping was the last thing I wanted to do, especially considering I didn't even want to attend the event I was shopping for. But together, Mila and Amber are tough to dissuade and I was too tired to try. Straightening, I saw Nate standing in front of me and taken off guard, I jumped.

He smiled at my skittishness, but I picked up on a nervous edge that seemed to tinge his movements. His hand was moving restlessly at his side, almost as if he were trying to calm himself.

"Hi," I said quizzically, wondering why he had yet to speak.

"Hey, Chloe," he said, putting his hands in his pocket and leaning against a locker in an effort to look at ease.

He continued to look at me, so, trying to mask my impatience, I asked politely, "Was there something you wanted?"

Starting back to reality he began speaking—slightly erratically—finishing sentences before he even began and fumbling over his words.

Feigning concentration on what he was saying, I let my eyes wander down the hall, hoping to see either Mila or Amber and somehow signal that I needed an escape. I had a wary feeling about where this was going and I wanted to stop it before I got a chance to find out if I had a right to be. However, my eyes did not find them; they found Derek, leaning against his own locker a few feet away, body turned towards Nate and me. For once though, he wasn't looking at me. He was glaring at Nate and looked—well not murderous, but close to it. He looked as if Nate was an unpleasant bug and if he could, he'd flick him away. Or maybe, measuring by the intensity of the glare, crush him to his demise.

Perplexed, I returned my attention to Nate, who was just now getting around to his point.

"…wondering if you would go to the dance with me," he asked, his words coming out in a tangled rush.

I cringed internally. That was what I was afraid of.

Quietly sighing, I took a good look at Nate. Medium brown, slightly disheveled hair, soft brown eyes and lashed so long they made girls jealous. He was taller than me—then again, everyone's taller than me—maybe five six, and lean, bordering on lanky. Sweet, smart and shy, he had good intentions. My eyes flicked treacherously to Derek, still glaring at Nate, before they returned to the hopeful boy standing in front of me. For a spiteful moment, I wanted to say yes. But it was fleeting, and I could never go through with it, never live with the guilt of having led him on. I liked Nate, just not that way. While he would make some other girl's heart flutter, I couldn't help but note that his hair wasn't dark, almost black; he didn't have intense, expressive green eyes; and his stature didn't make me feel as if I had the protection of fort Knox.

"Nate," I said gently, "I would go with you, but not under the same terms as I think you want. You're really sweet, but—"

"I don't know if I want you to finish that sentence." While he sounded disappointed, he sounded oddly resigned, as if he had—finally—accepted the truth of the matter.

"I'm sorry," I said, hating that I had to dissatisfy him.

"It's okay, Chloe," he said, smiling faintly. "I guess I'll just see you there then?"

I nodded but couldn't help but say, "I hope we can still be friends?" It ended up turning into a question I was so unsure I should be asking.

"Obviously. We are writing a play together, after all," he said, trying for levity.

I smiled gratefully and as I watched his retreating figure, my eyes once again, as if it were an ingrained habit, found Derek, who was now looking at me, wearing an expression of curiosity and intense relief.

Sitting at a table flanking the dance floor, I laid my head upon my hand, bored and grudgingly dejected. While Simon and Mila were smitten and slow dancing closely and Amber and Nate—who I found out quickly rebounded from my rebuff—were doing the same, I watched, sickened. The whole scene epitomized those terrible high school movies where everyone comes together at the final dance, mirrored it so closely, I wanted to close my eyes against it all, the movie maker in me cringing in fear.

There was also the fact that Derek was nowhere to be seen. Simon and Tori were here, but their brother could not be found. Simon had assured me repeatedly when I got here that Derek was coming, but later. He hadn't wanted to ride with Simon and Mila and said he'd wait for his dad to get home so he could catch a ride. Simon had even gone as far as to tell me that Derek had promised to come.

I lost hope after an hour and he still hadn't shown up. After another half hour, I started to wallow. And now, now I was mad. But not at Derek. At myself.

I had allowed myself to be dragged here because I hoped he would be here too and we could patch things up, maybe even take a step towards something else. I had stupidly bought a dress I would never wear again because I foolishly thought it made me look pretty and naively thought Derek would think I looked nice. And every time I got up to leave, I decided against it, choosing to wait another five minutes, just in case. I had unknowingly turned into one of those girls—those girls who wait around for the boy to notice them, who bend to said boy's every whim just because she likes him so much.

But I couldn't do it anymore. This somehow seemed like the last straw, the final push I needed to realize that, if he couldn't be bothered to show up, regardless of what his eyes conveyed, then he truly must not care.

Standing up, I grabbed my keys off the table and sent a text to Mila, telling her I was leaving and not to worry.

Walking away, leaving the music and happy couples behind, my hand absently ran along the dress regretfully; it really was beautiful and now it would remain in my closet, a reminder of what didn't happen.

It was a deep, forest green and it was velvet—very popular this season, the saleswoman had told me. Long sleeved, the front was a sweetheart neckline and there was boning in the torso, creating a nice effect before it flared out and cut at mid-thigh, to "balance out the long sleeves"—again, wise words of the pushy saleswoman. But it was soft and I loved the color and it made me feel somewhat enchanted. Polishing it off were my trusted white converse—I refused to renounce comfort for deathly style, in other words, heels.

Walking out into the frigid air, I strode purposefully to my car in the gravel parking lot, cursing myself for not bringing a jacket. I tried to push away the anxiety I felt towards what I thought was an eerie silence.

The music coming from the gym could still be heard, but as it seems to in the winter months, things appeared frozen and cold, almost like the weather was blocking everything out and making it seem farther away than it actually was. Noting the clouds each breath was forming in the air, I told myself I was being paranoid; too many encounters with Liam—who I hadn't even seen tonight—had gotten me anxious and wary of going anywhere alone at night. As my car came into view, I thought that if Derek and I were still on speaking terms, he'd be happy about me taking my car and not walking, airing on the side of ridiculous caution. I couldn't wait to get home, put on my sweats and curl up in front of my laptop to watch Psycho—morbid, I know, but it's also a great movie.

Opening my door, I was about to get in when a hand appeared beside my head, firmly shutting it. I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs and heard a dark chuckle from behind me. It felt as if a lead weight had dropped in my stomach and I stopped breathing for a moment, ceased with fear.

This was it. My streak of luck had ended. There was virtually no one around and Derek wasn't around to save me this time. And everyone else was inside the gym, deafened by the music and enthralled by their company, too focused on frivolity to hear any desperate cries for help. My heart was beating so loudly it seemed to be the only thing I could hear, so I was surprised when I managed to catch his murmured words.

"I can't believe you were goin' to leave without sayin' goodbye, pretty girl." His body had been close to mine, like an oppressive weight I could feel closing in on me, and when he spoke, his lips brushed my ear, inducing a shiver I couldn't control.

Another sadistic chuckle escaped his lips and I tired to take a deep breath and organize my reeling thoughts in an attempt to strategize. Turning around, I tried to prepare myself for the possibilities of what could come of this altercation and I desperately prayed that I had someone watching over me.

Someone pointed out to me-coughSammicough-tha the last chapter did not end in a cliffhanger. I apologize and I thought I should make up for it. R&R please :)