A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing! :'D *throws flowers and skips around*
Just... wanted to get this up as soon as possible because there's a Halloween bit coming up and I wanna get that up at least somewhere in the ballpark of October 31, so I kinda rushed on this. Really rushed, dedicated all my free time to it, and tried to cut as many corners as I could, so you would think this would be a relatively simple segment, but it's not. It's long and involved and drove me nuts, just like every segment preceding. I'm not happy with it, but I haven't been happy with anything I've posted, so ah. What the hell. *long sigh* This is all gonna get revised and edited at some point anyway. At least we're nearing the finish line.
What we have here is a classic case of SuprSingr biting off more than she can chew. I have been doing this my whole life. Will I ever quit?! OF COURSE NOT, I NEVER KNOW WHEN TO QUIT
More notes at the bottom. Thanks for sticking around, guys. I'll try to make it worth your while. Climaxes and epiphanies and reveals all coming up, and I have a special treat at the tale end of Phil's book. I hope you're all having a happy fall season!
~The Spice to My Pumpkin~
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SPECIAL THANKS: Because this is long overdue! Thank you to puffball17 for all the amazing support. She recently created a full-fledge, fourteen-page fan comic that I encourage you all to check out on her deviantart page, because it is incredible. She has also drawn a bunch of fanart and started a fanfic, on top of just being a wonderful human being with a killer sense of humor. I owe a lot of my energy to her. Prolly would've just passed out a long time ago if it weren't for her. x'D Much love, puff!
And welcome aboard, hashtagme! I apologize for the insomnia, but it's always great to have a new reader! :D There's juice in the cooler and cookies where no one can get to them. Make yourself at home. :)
Disclaimer: Some Kori dialogue taken straight out of her original character sheet by xxP00h67chu. I claim none of the awesome that these lines of dialogue bestow upon the almighty Thinker of Ultra Rad Stuff, AKA Writer Cred. Also, since it's been coming up and I forgot to freaking give credit and a certain someone never reminded me, you guys remember that scene where Zack wakes up one morning, goes to his window and catches sight of Pam without a shirt on? That idea was Panfla's. It's been eating on my conscience for-bloody-ever now, so HA. I AM NOW FREE OF GUILT. TAKE THAT MORALITY. I HAVE MADE YOU MY BITCH. and Panfla's brain is a dark, scary, evil place. Sorry, friend, but the world had to know. It needs time to prepare.
Breathing Slowly
Part 8
"I've been waiting for something for so long, to show me the answers that I want;
a reason to believe in that's so strong,
but I don't think that it exists."
—Sum 41
"Okay, get up."
"No," he grumbled against the pillow.
"This has to stop, Phil, you've been laying there for days. You've gotta get up sometime."
"Why? You never do."
There was some shuffling. "Come on, Junior, enough is enough. Wakey wakey eggs and bac—"
"We don't have eggs or bacon."
"No, but—…" A long pause. "Was it really necessary to interrupt me just then?"
Another pause, followed by more shuffling. "I just don't want you to upset him more, that's all. If someone got me up for breakfast and there wasn't any, I'd be… I'd be peeved."
"Phil isn't you, Ham. He's not gonna care—"
"He's barely eaten—"
"He's Phil—"
"It doesn't change that he could—"
"Okay, seriously, it's just a saying! Interrupt me one more time over something stupid, or, heck, just say the word 'peeved' again and best friend or no, I will sic my dad on you."
A sharp inhale. "What's so bad about the word 'peeved'?"
"I love that that's the first thing your mind locks onto."
"Well?" He sounded angry now. Phil buried his head deeper in the pillow.
"Oh, for gosh sakes—Other than the fact it's possibly the lamest possible way to say you're angry? Oh, you know. Nothing, really. Dweeb."
"You're the dweeb!"
"It seems like it would be that way, huh? But nope, it's all yo—Touch me and I'll get my dad!"
"What's your dad gonna do?"
"Make you disappear." Spooky noises. "You know how the government works, man. They're tracking us. They know our every – single – move. My dad's probably already on his way over here to ship you to the bad part of India."
"Your dad's a cop." No amusement.
"And your mouth is a hole." Cool detachment.
"Oh-ho, Kori. Your mouth opens and all that comes out is nonsense. How's that work—"
"Okay, fine, you want breakfast that bad? Go get in a frying pan."
A low growl. "Kori…"
"That's enough!" Phil shouted, flying up from couch. He supported himself on his arms, hair in whacky disarray, blanket sliding down his back as he glared in furious exhaustion at the two older kids. "Can't you see I'm trying to waste away? Have a little respect for the deceased!"
They snapped their heads around and blinked at him, as if they'd forgotten he was there. Both were facing each other, Josh with his hands fisted and body drawn like a metal coil and Kori in defensive but overall calm stance. At his expectant glare, they both shared a brief awkward glance before looking away again. Josh stepped away and Kori crossed her arms tighter, further averting her eyes. Josh began roughly massaging the back of his neck with the pad of his hand, his mouth hanging a little open as his eyes skimmed the rug.
"Uh… Phil, look," Josh said, unceremoniously perching himself on the edge of the couch beside him, hands falling to lace between his knees, "I've been thinking."
"Congratulations," Phil groaned and threw the blanket back over himself, tucking back into the couch. Kori snickered. Josh threw her a glare, and she quickly smothered her laughter with a cough against her fist, smirking at the bookshelf.
Josh took another deep breath and loosened his hold. The unhealthy white pallor started to steadily disappear from his fingers. "Look," he began again, trying not to clench his teeth, "Mom was right. She said you would overreact, and you have. This was obviously a bad idea. So, I think it'd be best if—"
Phil threw the blanket aside to snarl, "Overreact? Overreact? Don't you get it? She was the only shot I had and she—I'm not even entirely sure what she did, but she did it! And now I—" He stopped. Fell back against the couch, a pillow cushioning his head. He covered his face and groaned again. "I'm dead. I'm so dead. It's all over. The curse is gonna get me and there's nothing I can do about it. Mom and Dad were wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything's wrong. There's no hope, no faith, no miracles." He rolled over onto his stomach and let his arm plop down to the floor, his face half-buried in the pillow, and drew out in a quiet groan, "No nothing."
Josh opened his mouth to try to reason with him, but Kori placed a hand on his shoulder and shook her head minutely. Josh closed his mouth and stood, sighing. "You can't mope forever," he settled on saying.
Phil pulled the blanket up over his head again and mumbled sourly, "Watch me."
Josh did. For several seconds, blankly, before a muscle started twitching in his face and he suddenly scooped him up off the couch and folded him securely in his arms. Phil gasped and tried to struggle out of the blanket, but Josh held his kicking, squirming body tighter and said to Kori over his frantic protests, "Plan B is in motion. Part one complete. Stand by for implementation of part two."
Kori saluted him and marched ahead. Josh followed. Phil made several very violent threats that were soundly ignored.
The two and their cargo walked promptly to the backdoor. Kori opened it, allowing Josh through, and closed it right after like a good soldier. It was there, in that little stretch of yard, that Josh lifted Phil up and wordlessly—dropped him into Amanda's kiddy pool.
The splash this action caused was astronomical. Or at least it was by a four-year-old's standards, if the way Amanda gasped and threw her arms up as a shield was any indication. Phil, for his part, spasmed and convulsed in blind terror before finally managing to throw the soaking wet blanket off of himself and gulp in a much needed lungful of air. Hair almost pitch black and covering his eyes, and light green shirt clinging to his torso, Phil shuddered and cried, "What just happened?"
While Kori burst into laughter behind him, Josh calmly stated, "The mourning period's over. It's time to move on."
Shudders continued to wrack Phil's frame for a few more seconds before the harsh pants coming from his mouth started to take on a distinctly wobbly quality.
Josh stiffened. "Are you gonna cry?"
"No," Phil snapped emotionally, and sniffled. "I was just minding my own business when two jerks came and decided to throw me in a pool is all. Why would that upset me? That happens all the t-time." He swallowed and made no move to extract himself from the pool. Amanda frowned and threw herself to hug him, her head going just underneath his chin and pushing it up, and glared at Josh. "That wasn't nice, Josh," she yelled.
Josh ran a stressed hand across his face, Kori's fading laughter still ringing in his ears. "I just wanted you to get out of this funk! You've done nothing but watch TV for days, and it's already Sunday. I couldn't just let you go on like that! It was killing me." He looked at Amanda a tad desperately and added, "It was killing everyone."
"So you decided to throw me in a pool?" Phil yelled shakily, and gave a particularly hard shudder before flipping the hair out of his eyes. His breaths were still coming in sharp, unnatural little gasps, and his eyes looked almost as watery as the rest of him, but he shook himself and placed a hand on Amanda's shoulder to try to push her off. She just held him tighter and snuggled deeper, and he shuddered again for entirely different reasons. "Get of-offa m-me, you l-little blood suck-er. I'm f-fine." He gulped in a quick breath and held it, pushing himself up against the side of the pool for support so he could scrub both hands over his face aggressively before slamming one back down into the pool and using the other to slick his hair further back. More steadily, and with a forced dignity, he repeated, "I'm fine."
Amanda didn't stop glaring at Josh, and seemed to realize Kori was in on it too when she walked up to tentatively stand beside him, because she shared the dirty look with her then as well. "You should apologize," she commanded, sounding almost threatening.
"I'm sorry," Josh immediately burst, wracked with guilt. Then seemed to realize how pathetic he just sounded and rubbed the back of his neck. "Plan B wasn't very well thought out."
"You think?" Phil yelled yet again, green eyes wide and wild. He grappled clumsily for the side of the pool when he started to slide down under Amanda's weight, and placed both his feet flat on the pool's floor. "Can't a guy decompose in peace without his family trying to bug the life into him?"
"Aw, Phil," Kori gushed, looking almost as guilty as Josh. She kneeled down beside him and hugged him from the side, wet shoulders, dripping hair against her cheek and all. "We'll always drag you back from the grave. That's what families are there for."
"Yeah," Josh agreed, and walked around so he could crouch down and pull them all into a hug. "Resurrection and annoyance."
"And love," Kori added, her arms tightening around the two younger children.
Amanda seemed satisfied with this, because her face cleared and a hum issued from her throat as she snuggled deeper into the hug. Phil's mouth hung open, his brain struggling to comprehend this much human contact at one time. "Oh, geez," he rasped, "I'm gonna barf."
The backdoor opened then to reveal Zack. He had been walking swiftly and purposefully, but when his eyes caught sight of them he stopped mid-step. The door hung open, and Zack's face was blank. He shifted back on his feet and blinked, for once looking totally confused. "Did I miss something?" His eyes swept over Phil's fully-clothed, soaked form, Amanda's position beneath his chin, Kori embracing the two and Josh embracing them all before he grinned with sudden radiance. "A group-hugging pool party? Why wasn't I on the guest list?" He stepped forward and let the door swing shut behind him.
Phil sat his chin on Amanda's head and closed his eyes, done. Josh blinked at Zack and slowly rose with eyes wide and blue. Once upright, his eyes narrowed suspiciously, taking in the green jacket over his usual plaid shirt and the backpack hanging from his shoulder. "You going somewhere?"
Zack adjusted his pack and smirked. "Going somewhere? Me? How could I be doing that when I'm locked in one of the empty rooms upstairs listening to music?" He raised half his eyebrow and raised his free hand, twirling a keychain housing a single key on his index finger. "Think fast." He tossed it to Josh and stepped to the side, moving stealthily around the boarding house. "If anyone makes any complaints, sneak in there and lower the music, 'kay? Don't let anyone in on the fact I'm out." He paused at the side of the building and whipped his head around, one hand on the corner as he said, "Oh, and if anyone asks after me at dinner, tell them I'm sulking."
Josh looked incredulously from him to the key. "I'm not gonna cover for you," he exclaimed, affronted. "Where are you going that Mom and Dad wouldn't be happy about?"
Zack blinked, and just like that blue eyes were shining and half-lidded, and Josh felt something unpleasant zip up his spine. "Say," Zack began softly, deep and velvet, "Josh. Wally sure is a... silly TV show, wouldn't you say?"
Josh stiffened. His eyes turned to slits. "Fine," he bit out, fisting the key.
Zack beamed. "There's a good Josh. I'll get you a treat while I'm out."
"Oh, bite me," Josh griped and snatched up the wet blanket from the side of the pool. Without another word, he marched around it, passed Kori, and stormed into the house. The door slammed after him. Zack leaned back and observed the door curiously before turning his head to Kori. "Rough day?" he asked.
Kori smirked, just a little.
Zack grinned and nodded understandingly. "Rough day."
"Zack?" Amanda asked quietly, finally releasing Phil from her vice grip to wade over to the side of the pool. Her small blonde head popped over the side, her green eyes huge beneath her bangs. "Where are you going?"
"Yeah," Phil said slowly, carefully standing up from the pool. "Where are you going on Sunday that sounds like it's going to run straight through dinner?"
Zack looked at Phil a little funny for his tone, when it suddenly dawned on him. "Oh!" He slapped his forehead. "Corn dogs! I completely forgot. Crap." He lowered his hand. His smile was nearly sheepish. "I'm meeting Sophie for a concert. Asked Mom and Dad, but they think it's too mature, or some other horseradish. Good news is Sophie thinks sneaking out is exciting." He grinned widely and turned full around, a giddy sort of nervous energy permeating the space around him. It dampened at the disbelief in Phil's eyes, how small and pathetic he looked standing there, dripping wet and lightly shivering. His eyes flicked down to Amanda's innocent, confused face before going blank. "Uh. I'll have to take a rain ch—" He stilled suddenly. Blinked. His eyebrow furrowed in thought. Then a hand came up to cup his chin, as an evil smile worked its way across his face. "Oh, it's almost too perfect," he murmured at last.
Kori looked wary and uncomfortable. Amanda still looked confused. Phil looked… Phil looked mad.
"I want no part of whatever is running through your head," he yelled, and stepped out of the pool like a celebrity out of a limousine. His clothes still dripped noisily, and his hair was clumped awkwardly at the back of his head, but the effect comically remained. He grabbed his shirt in both his hands and rung it out as best he could.
"Nonsense," Zack declared and waved him off. "Go get changed quick and tell Mom we're leaving. We're going out for corn dogs, then I'm gonna leave you with Kori to go to the concert, and we're going to run into some 'mishaps' on our corn dog outing that just so happen to delay us a few hours more than we expected. I'll meet back up with you guys at the pier and we'll go home, apologize like crazy, and go to bed. Easy-peasy." He plucked his backpack off his shoulder and walked over to stash it behind the log pile.
"No," Phil snapped, throwing him a fierce look.
Zack took off his jacket and walked over to wrap it around Phil's trembling frame. Phil started, surprised, but Zack just patted him twice on the back and said, "Chop chop, I don't want to be late."
"I'm not helping you," Phil howled, fisting his hands at his sides and stamping his feet in frustrated conviction.
"Beepers," Zack said casually, observing his nails.
Phil froze. A drip of water ran down his forehead and tried to run in his eye. He whined and wiped it away. "My life is horrible," he complained loudly, throwing his arms in the air as he stomped over to the door. "Why was I even conceived?" At the door, he whirled around and yelled, hands on his hips, "And who plays in a pool in the middle of Fall anyway?" He glowered at Amanda.
Amanda frowned. "It's sunny and I'm bored."
Phil's eyes and head rolled back like he'd been struck. He placed one hand on the bridge of his nose and pinched. "Right. Of course. It's so simple!" He threw Zack's jacket off and jerked the door open before disappearing inside. The door clunked quietly shut.
It was silent for a few seconds. Amanda looked up at Zack and Kori with her eyes slightly narrowed. "Well, it is," she defended, and threw herself back into the pool, splashing her arms around aggressively.
Zack wiped a few specks of water from his shirt and smiled warmly down at his sister. He turned his head around to face Kori then and that smile brightened. "Rough day," he said conclusively, nodding.
Kori tilted her head up at him, bemused. Her glasses glinted in the sunlight. "You know, I never agreed to your plan," she said quietly. "Josh and I collected up some board games to play today."
"Ha, you'd really hang out with him in this mood?" Zack raised his shoulders and eyebrow high. When Kori just tilted her head down lower and quirked her mouth to one side in the wrong direction, he deflated. "Aw, come on, Kori, don't make me blackmail you. You're my best friend's sister. Work with me here."
Kori just shook her head and walked to the door. Zack asked after her, "Is this your way of saying you'll cooperate?"
She shut the door firmly.
Zack pursed his lips. His hands played patty-cake for a few seconds on his calves. He glanced down to meet Amanda's curious gaze, as she floated on her back, and smiled. "Rough day," he assured.
Amanda grinned and splashed a hand at him.
Phil slammed into the wall as he struggled to get his shirt over his head. Shoes were knocked aside and plaid shirts bashed, swinging on their hangers into long pink dresses. A single sock was stomped and eventually kicked to the back of the closet, never to be seen again.
After smashing into the door and wall a few more times, and with minimal tripping, he got the shirt past his neck and down his arms. With a single huff, he tugged it down and ran a slow hand down to get out any wrinkles, the fabric smooth beneath his palm. He glanced up, seeing his jacket up on the uppermost shelf and glared at it for being so far above his ability to reach.
Never one to give up without making a mess first, he dragged the foot stool over and placed several shoe boxes on top of it. Gingerly, he climbed it and placed a foot up on the boxes, testing its stability. Apparently satisfied, he placed the other foot up and snatched the jacket. Now immensely pleased with himself, he started to pull it down, but it caught. He frowned, pulled at it a little harder. It still caught. He dropped his head and sighed.
"You know," he told the jacket, "I've had some pretty off days – some pretty off months – but I think this one takes it." He grabbed it in both fists and gave it a rough tug. "I took my idiot brother's advice and ditched my friends," tug, "my teacher keeps trying to push advanced work at me even though I told Grandpa Bob I wasn't gonna do it," tug, "I found out I'm cursed to marry Mercy Laporte," tug, "I joined drama club," he tugged extra hard, "and the love of my life thinks I'm a nut!" He leaned back, putting all his weight on the jacket. It started to slowly slide out, as he gritted his teeth and ground out, "And to top it all off, I don't know that I particularly disagree." The jacket slammed him in the chest and he went crashing into the door with an "ackff," all the boxes on the stool and up on the shelf tumbling after him and falling in a pile.
Several seconds later, his head popped out of the wreckage, disheveled, frowning and heavy-lidded. He groaned and started to climb out. "Can't I catch a single break?" he asked the closet. "Just one?" He looked up and cried, "Give me a sign, a reason to keep going! Anything! I don't care what it is!"
The closet didn't reply, and that was answer enough. Phil sighed, not the least bit surprised.
As he finished putting his jacket on and was stacking the boxes back in their rightful places, he unearthed one with a small, golden bow, shining beneath a couple other boxes. His eyes widened at the sight of it, and he carefully dug it out, as if it was a pack of dynamite ready to blow. Once in hand, he held it at arm's length, tense as a rock. When nothing exploded after several seconds, he held it closer and examined it—the brown wrapping, the card stuck under the bow, the black sharpie marking it as his own… His mouth went flat and his shoulders fell. "Oh."
He stared forlornly at it for a long time. His hands looked oddly ashen against the paper, and the bow glinted in the pale light streaming in from outside the door. He ran his finger over his name, across the bow; felt around the sides for the creases that would open it.
Then he stepped up on the stool, threw it back up on the shelf, and tossed the last of the boxes after it.
It was just as he had tucked the stool away and walked out of the closet that Helga came trotting in. She stopped at the sight of him and blinked. "Well," she said gently, "look who's up."
Phil frowned and zipped his jacket. "Zack and I are going out for corn dogs," he said shortly, on his way to walking straight past her and down the stairs. "Be back later, bye."
"Whoa there, kiddo!" She placed a hand on his head just before he could pass, suspending him in place. "I'm glad to hear you're finally getting out, but..." she bit her lip, "you've been..."
Phil looked up at her. "What?"
Helga stared down at him for a few seconds, wide-eyed, before a relaxed, loving smile spread across her face and she kneeled down to run her fingers through his hair, combing out the damp, stribbly bits. "Nothing, I've just been worried. You were acting pretty blue, sleeping down there on the couch every night. I've missed listening to your little whistle-snores." She lowered her voice and added dryly, fixing the collar of his jacket, "Mr. Hyunh's been especially disturbed. I think he was about ready to go on strike."
"First, I don't snore," he firmly corrected, "and Mr. Hyunh was disturbed to begin with. And second—third—whatever: I'm still blue. I'm just gonna be blue eating corn dogs at the pier now is all."
"Because of the curse," Helga muttered dully, eyes on her task.
"Because of everything."
Helga rolled her eyes and withdrew, but stayed knelt. She huffed out a humored sigh and shook her head. "I'm just glad you got out of that whole campfire lass situation before you could get emotionally attached. It could have been a whole lot worse."
"Hey, I'm emotionally attached," Phil said defensively. He pointed his thumb at his face. "Look at me. This is the face of a heartbroken man."
Helga snorted out a quiet, breathy laugh. "Aw, Sweetie, you wouldn't know heartbreak if it stood right in front of you and bopped you on the nose." She put a hand to his cheek, her face tender. "I pray it stays that way for a good, long time."
Phil grabbed her wrist and pulled it away. "Can I go now?"
Helga humphed and snapped her hand down so she was holding his. She gripped it tight, her face going wry, and Phil's eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, no. I had an interesting conversation with Olga recently. Did you know she's caught you running away to hide from her eight times since she came down?"
Phil didn't like where this was going. He tried in vain to tug his hand free. "Mom, uh…"
"I know Olga can come across pretty obnoxious, but she is your aunt. She's been just as concerned about you as the rest of us, got you a lovely gift, flew in early just to spend some extra time with the family, and here you've gone and hurt her feelings." She lightened her hold and met his eyes dryly. "Look, she's been bored out of her mind. She's cooked everything in the kitchen, scrubbed the house to the point I can see my reflection in the bricks, and won't stop singing showtunes. I'm about three cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels away from herding all the pigeons together and flying off into the sun. Now, she wants to take you out for a day on the town and I gave her my full permission to take you wherever she wanted anytime."
Phil snapped backwards, but was apparently not expecting her to release his hand because he overshot and ended up on his butt. "You what?" he shouted in abject horror, eyes huge with stunned terror and gaping disbelief.
Helga snorted and stood. "Don't act all excited or anything."
"You did what?"
She threw her arms up before folding them. "Would you calm down? Just take her with you on your corn dog outing, spend some time at the mall, see a movie—Olga's loaded, reckless, and willing to do most anything. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for a kid your age. You ought to be thanking me."
"You did what?"
Helga momentarily shut her eyes, summoning patience. Once open, she looked vaguely amused, and turned her body in the direction of the door. "Yeah, well. You guys have fun. I'd just like to see you try and be depressed around Olga. She's the most nauseatingly uplifting person on the planet." As she completed the turn and began down the stairs, she muttered dully, "Just what you need, if you ask me."
Phil's voice yelled after her, "You did what?"
Helga rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
Subject: Olga Pataki
Status: kill me
Situation: Dire. Stranded in men's bathroom. Only sustenance available appears to be corn dogs, two year old condiment packets and lemonade that is essentially just a lemon floating in a cup of water. Subject remains oblivious to observation. All attempts at sarcasm have fallen flat and subject has twice tried to engage me in sing-along. Will not cease attempts in blinding me with over-white teeth. Eyesight is starting to get fuzzy. I fear next for my good judgment. Sibling Zach is not thrilled, but who cares?
My watch tells me it's only been twenty minutes, but it feels like twenty months. Supplies are running low. I can't survive for much longer. If anyone I know should find this, tell my mom I never did like her stew. The beef was always too chewy.
"What are you doing?"
Phil huffed at Zack's voice and slammed his pen down on his notebook. "Well, I was about to write you into my will, but so much for that."
He saw Zack's shoes and shadow beneath the stall. "Stop being a drama queen and come out. Hiding from your problems doesn't make them magically disappear. Besides, eating your corn dog in the bathroom is kinda gr…" He trailed off.
Phil could hear Zack snickering on the other side now. His eyes narrowed. "No."
Zack's laughter spiked, but there was a muffled quality to it now. Phil glared at his feet as they shuffled off to the side. "You—Ho. Okay, Philly, look. I know this isn't how either of us planned to spend our day, but we can make the best of this. It's not that bad. Aunt Olga's really sweet."
Phil tucked his notebook back into his bag aggressively. "You know that 'bright side' junk doesn't work on me. Just stop."
"Heh," Zack's voice chuckled. "Come out and we'll see."
Phil kicked the stall door open. The hinges clattered with the strain of bringing it to a stop, and the force was enough that it whipped right back and smacked Phil in the face. Phil froze, statuesque as the door swung lazily away, then came all the way out with a short growl, rubbing at his pinkened nose under the ever watchful eye of Zack's amusement. "Let's just go," he grumbled.
Zack noticed his logbook peeking out of his backpack. He raised his eyebrow and walked to the exit. As he suspected might be the case, footsteps didn't follow, and he turned back to see Phil standing unhappily in the same spot as before. He bit back a smirk and asked, "Hey, I trust you're not still spelling my name with an 'h'?"
"No," Phil burst and shuffled out of the room at warp speed, giving him a wide berth. Zack narrowed his eyes after him with a smirk.
The moment they walked out of the bathroom, Olga was on them. She was wearing a green jean skirt, brown belt and boots, with a white collared shirt. Her hair swished at her shoulders, dark and golden in the bright afternoon sun while the emerald pendant around her neck swung when she bent over. "Hey, boys," she greeted cheerfully, her eyes wide and attentive on both of their faces. Zack was relaxed beside him, but Phil squirmed a little and held his backpack closer. Olga didn't appear to notice. "Where to next?"
Zack and Phil shared a considering look. Phil tapped his backpack strap and Zack smiled, turning his face back up to meet Olga's eyes. "You know Baltimore Books?" he asked.
Olga raised her eyebrows, intrigued. "No. Where's that?"
"Not far, it's just over on the east side." Zack indicated the direction, and they started to walk, Zack sandwiched in between Olga and Phil. As they went, Zack told her, "It's a specialty bookstore. You can buy or rent for pretty cheap, and Mr. Young's always got new books on display each week."
"Oooh." Olga clasped her hands and grinned. "It sounds so quaint."
"Quaint," Phil muttered.
Zack gave him an inconspicuous slap on the back and returned Olga's grin. "Very."
While Zack and Olga chatted about pointless nonsense, Phil allowed himself to zone out. His brother and aunt's footsteps were strident on the dry wooden deck, but his own were light and almost completely drowned out in the wake of their own. He had much shorter legs than them, though, so his pace was considerably more persistent. He listened carefully and counted each beat, murmuring the numbers beneath his breath.
A hundred and eighty steps later, the store was in their line of sight. It sat subdued amongst the other buildings and stalls, unapologetically ligneous with a white awning stretched out over the top. The window read "Baltimore Books" in thick, retro scrawl; several stacks of books behind it, creating a city of colorful, discordant towers. It had a single door, glass and painted a pale green, the doorknob a scraped golden shade too old and well-handled to sparkle any longer, and a single white gourd sat beside it. As soon as Olga laid eyes on it, she made a low, cooing noise.
"It's so..." she started to say, seeming at a loss for words.
Phil humphed and ran ahead, unwilling to hear the end of her sentence.
The door jangled as he came inside, and the smell of enfeebled paper, aged wood and pumpkin spiced candles whapped him in the face, as oddly comforting as ever. Short rows of gold-trimmed bookcases stood in narrow aisles, the floors dark, ceilings high and warm and walls varying pastel shades of green, white and yellow. The light was dim and tinted a sort of amber, but the sun cast brilliant streaks of white across the room, peeking through the cracks of the towering books. And to the far right of all of this, Mr. Young sat at a rounded checkout desk that matched the bookcases perfectly. He looked up at the bell.
"Phil m'boy," he exclaimed, his voice unfailingly smooth and free of stutter. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"
Phil sauntered over to the desk. "I come here every Sunday," he said, bemused. "Why do you always ask me that?"
Mr. Young smiled. "Time's change," he said cryptically. Phil shook his head as the bell rang behind him, and threw his backpack up on the counter.
"Book return," he said. A beat. His face altered. "And, um..." he hesitated, glanced over his shoulder at Olga taking in the place and Zack picking through the display books, looking bored, then turned his face back to Mr. Young and hefted himself up on his arms. He lowered his voice to a tentative whisper, "Do you have any books on... girls?"
Mr. Young's face stayed carefully blank, but Phil could tell he'd unsettled him. "Girls?" he likewise whispered after a moment. He licked his lips and hunkered lower down in his chair. "What do you want to know about girls?"
"How to make them like me."
Mr. Young relaxed. "Like you?"
Phil whispered even quieter, very meaningfully, "Like me."
"Ah." Mr. Young bobbed his head and sat back. "Got just what you need right here." Without looking, he made a grab and slid a thin, hardcover book in front of him. The dust jacket was gone, and so it appeared as a simple off white book. Mr. Young put it up on his side then, revealing the title: Female Persuasion. Phil eyed it uncertainly for a few seconds before meeting Young's eyes again, expression flat. He asked, "Why did you have this right next to you?"
Mr. Young sat the book down and stroked an earlobe. "I'm a fifty-year-old, single man," he said slowly. "You can figure out the rest."
Phil shut his eyes a second, tightly, then wordlessly picked up the book. He wandered over to the other side of the store, by the window's light, and flipped through. Zack's bark of laughter startled him, though, and he looked sharply over to see Zack asking Mr. Young in a voice thick with mirth, "Is all you have these frilly poetry books this week?"
Mr. Young raised an eyebrow, smiling faintly. "I like them."
"But they're so girly. Oh—" Zack caught Phil's look and grinned brilliantly. "Philly, look how deep and complex I am." He made his face as snooty and pinched up as possible, squinting his eyes as he plucked delicately through the book in his hand, a page at a time, chin high. Phil grimaced at the display, and Zack burst into cackles.
Mr. Young shook his head and walked out from behind the counter. "Young people," he lamented, wandering out of sight behind a bookcase.
"Hopeless, the lot of us," Zack declared in his direction, grinning. Looking back at Phil, he shrugged and put the book back on the display, making a show of wiping his hands on his pants and over his jacket. He glanced away, back, then did a double take and shuffled into an aisle. Phil watched him warily before turning back to the book in his hands.
"Okay," he muttered quickly while he still had a moment of solitude, flipping the book back open. "Let's see. Chapter one: Flowers..." He squinted. "Really? They dedicated an entire chapter just to that?" He flipped to chapter two. "Chocolates—" Chapter three. "Dancing." Four. "Serenade? Guh. That is disgusting." He slammed the book shut and sighed, turning his face to the ceiling. "If girls were really this insipid all this time, why have they been giving me so much trouble?"
Olga's voice drifted from the other side of the store, and he listened idly as he turned to stare glumly out the window. "He really was very talented," she was saying.
"Thanks, I guess," Mr. Young replied. The sun shimmered on the river outside. "My sister's a fan. She gave it to me as a gift just recently. I do like the colors."
"Lovely," he heard Olga respond, just as something caught his eye outside. There was a figure jump roping towards the store, decked in green with yellow socks flopping up and down her legs—
Phil dropped the book in surprise. The figure skipped closer, becoming more recognizable. Phil just watched, feeling strange as Sara jump roped up the stairs onto the upper deck. It was right then, just as she made it to the top and looked at the store, that she spotted him. Her eyes went huge and she made an immediate turn, jump roping away with record speed. A pang of intense irritation hit Phil so fiercely that he had the door open and was racing down the deck before he was even aware of himself. The bell resounded through the store, startling Olga and Mr. Young.
"Hey," Phil yelled, his feet pounding after her. Sara skipped faster. Phil grit his teeth and jumped over the stairs, clearing them all with one leap, and snatched her by the arm. "I said hey!" he yelled again, infuriated, noting her flinch as she wearily turned to look at him. Her eyes were unusually pale, along with the rest of her, but Phil didn't care.
"You ran away from me," he accused, pointing a finger in her face. She just stared at him, perturbed. "Like I was a monster! You were gonna go into Baltimore, weren't you? I saw you were. Well, don't let me stop you! You big jerk."
She continued to stare, not reacting in any way to his words. He noticed wires coming from her ears then and his finger dropped, along with his jaw. Time seemed to slow as he grabbed one and plucked it out of her ear, staring at it like he'd never seen an earphone before. Then, with equal slowness, he turned his eyes back up to blink at her. Time snapped back to normal with the words, "Did you seriously just stand there listening to music while I yelled at you?"
Sara pursed her lips and took the earphone from his hand, carefully avoiding his fingers, and tucked it along with its partner into her shirt. "You know this is bordering on harassment," she muttered dully, as she reached down to turn off her iPod and pushed some loose strands of hair to the back of her head. She looked at him again and he crossed his arms, his indignation finally catching up and overpowering his initial disbelief.
"I wouldn't be 'harassing' you if you'd stop treating me like a leper."
"Seriously," she went on like he hadn't said anything, "this whole stalking thing, with you chasing me down just to yell at me? It's not funny anymore—I'm starting to doubt it ever was."
Phil ground his teeth. "So get a restraining order then," he leaned up to hiss, "if I've been inconveniencing you so badly by wanting to like you."
Sara raised an eyebrow at that. "A restraining order would be a bit extreme. I don't think you're dangerous. Just..." She looked up, searching the air for the right word.
"Annoying?" he offered sarcastically.
Sara started rolling up her jump rope. "Your words, not mine," she murmured. He laughed humorlessly, and she exhaled. "People keep looking at me funny now," she said, almost more to herself than to him, still winding the rope. "Because of you. They all want to know what I did to get you so angry."
"Oh no. Not human interaction."
She let her arms drop to her sides and looked at him blankly. "What are you doing here?"
"Talking to you?" Phil snorted.
"No," she said slowly, like he was thick, "at Baltimore."
He narrowed his eyes further. "Looking for books, what else?"
Sara actually looked surprised by that. Criminy. Her dopiness was never-ending. "You didn't come here looking for me?"
"No. Why would I do that?"
Sara was staring at him again, and Phil hated being stared at. Hated it a lot, in fact. Luckily it only lasted a couple seconds and then she was blinking. "I like books," she said lightly, and shrugged. "Look, I'm actually kinda glad I've got you here." He twisted his face and she amended, "Okay, half-heartedly, but glad nonetheless. I've been wanting to talk about this whole... curse thing. I know I didn't really give you a chance to say anything before, so..." She trailed off, running her thumb roughly over the rope.
"Glad? To have me around?" he said, deadpan. "Y'know, I think they have a cream for that." When Sara just stood blinking at him, Phil huffed and turned his body back towards the store. "Whatever, forget it. I didn't come out here to get into a thing with you. It's just we go to the same school, so we'll probably end up running into each other a lot and I don't want to have to watch you stumbling over yourself to get away every time. I may love you, and you may not love me, but that's okay. I'm not gonna jump you or anything. I'm perfectly capable of handling rejection and I get you want to be left alone, so as flattering as your fear is, don't waste it on me."
Concluding his speech, he finished his turn and began back up the steps, but a hand on his arm suddenly held him in place. On pure instinct, he ripped his arm out of its grip and whipped it out of reach, snapping his head around to hiss, "Don't touch me."
She put her hands up, placidly, and held his eyes with her own wide and disarming. Even a step higher than her, she had to tilt her head down to look at him, and that fact alone made her pacifying body language fail spectacularly in calming him down. Yet, despite being under the full heat of his glare, Sara appeared perfectly collected. Phil wasn't sure if that counted for anything with her, though. She always looked calm and, really, kind of apathetic, almost dead. The more time he spent around her, the more her 'ghost' reputation made sense. Or distinct lack of any reputation whatsoever, rather. She was never fully present, somehow, and even now didn't seem to be truly in front of him. It was odd, because her looks were absurdly conspicuous – (when you finally got a good look at her, anyway, which he'd gotten a few of by now (her eyes were fricken purple, for Pete's sake)) – but her presence was so wan that it seemed to cancel them all out. It had been setting Phil's teeth on edge for a while now.
But then, there was a subtle change and she blinked forcefully, and when her eyes opened, she looked floored. Her face was open with astonishment, and the sudden rawness of emotion was enough to send Phil into a blinking stupor.
"Wait," she uttered faintly at first, as her hands slowly fell, "you… still think you love me?"
Phil didn't know how to react. "Du-uh...?"
She blinked hard again, and gave a small shake of her head to clear it before furrowing her eyebrows. "Are all boys emotionally retarded?"
Phil felt blind-sided with searing offense, and for a long second, couldn't breathe. And then his breath all came out in a heated rush of, "Excuse me?"
"You can't love someone you don't know," she stated without preamble, once again ignoring him, and Phil felt coiled so tight he was afraid he might explode into a million pieces. "I'm sure it was easy to believe you felt that way about me, but you don't. You never did. I tried explaining this to you before."
"Oh, what?" Phil turned back to face her fully and placed his hands on his hips, his cheeks flushed with what he was sure was a very unpleasant shade of maroon. "Because I don't know all your pointless preferences? I don't care about what you like, I care about you."
"But you don't," she said. "That's the thing. I care. I care about the things that I like, and the fact that that doesn't matter to you, that the way I feel and what I think is irrelevant, means that you don't really care about me at all."
Phil snapped his mouth open on instinct, prepping for a speedy retort, but none came.
Sara's hands were folded in front of her stomach now, and she still looked collected. Her face was open, though, and Phil couldn't detect a hint of animosity in her. She was just making a point, and she still was, as she proved a moment later when she softly continued, seeing that he had nothing to say, "I know I'm an easy person to get a crush on." She sounded consoling, but there was a faint patronizing note sweeping below it that Phil's ears picked up on with devastating accuracy. His eyes slowly narrowed. "You're not the first to try this. I'm quiet, I don't contradict people, and so my image ends up being very..." she worked her mouth thoughtfully, eyebrows falling, "malleable," she remembered. "I can be twisted into whatever anyone wants me to be. And especially with this—curse—thing, I'm sure marrying... a ghost – seemed appealing. Simple. But love doesn't work like that, and neither do I."
Phil positively quivered, and had developed a smile that was so wide and fake that it was trembling. "Well," he declared, eyes large, "aren't you special then? Good for you. I apologize for being such a moron."
Sara smiled tranquilly, and Phil could feel his blood pressure rising. "Don't beat yourself up about it, it was understandable," she said idly, once more not quite there, and whipped her jump rope back out. She turned, preparing to skip away, but Phil quick jumped in front of her and waved his hands.
"Oh, no," he said in the kindest voice imaginable. "You wanted to go into Baltimore. I insist."
"It's fine, I can go in later," she replied, making to step around him. Phil stepped in front of her again.
"Please. I've already disrupted your life enough."
Sara raised an eyebrow at that, and the look in her eyes was a smack to the face. The sudden clarity was sickening. Where before he'd seen only softness and simplicity and, admittedly, dimness, he now saw the thoughts swirling in her eyes, of things unsaid, opinions unvoiced, many no doubt unflattering. He wondered how he could have missed it, how he could have ever thought a girl could be anything but complicated and corrupt, and realized with a distant nausea that he hadn't wanted to see it.
And he wasn't too gratified to be seeing it now, not only because it meant she was right, but because – instead of saying any of the things in her eyes – he had to watch her smile that strange, awkward smile and nod tightly, and it made him want to push her into the river so badly, just to see if she would dissolve or scream or burst into flames or do anything but be a big fat lie.
A muscle jerked in his neck, and he almost did just that, but managed to restrain himself at the last moment by clapping his hands together. "Go on then," he rasped, his voice crackling more than usual.
It took her a moment, but she did finally relent and turn around, walking up the steps with her jump rope dragging behind her. Phil trailed after, his smile shattering against the ground and shoulders squaring off.
She opened the door and stepped inside, then had the nerve to turn around and hold it open for him. He clenched his teeth and slammed a hand against the door, giving her a pointed look. She stared at him very intensely for a second, but then turned and walked all the way inside. Phil humphed and let the door fall shut behind him.
Olga and Mr. Young were standing in very odd, stiff poses by the register when they came in, and didn't react right away to the door's jingle. Mr. Young's head jerked in their direction after a disjointed moment, and a tongue darted across his lips in agitation as he held up Phil's backpack. "Hey, Phil, I was just speaking with your aunt. All I could find in here was your textbooks."
Phil widened his eyes. In a flash, he was pushing past Sara, grabbing his backpack from Mr. Young and digging viciously through it. "That's impossible! I had it right on top!"
Sara walked up with her arms barred over her chest, observing his violent motions and the textbooks clattering carelessly across the floor, before turning to look up at Mr. Young. "What book was it?"
Phil stilled, one hand still deep in the bag. He mumbled something unintelligible under his breath and slowly retracted his hand. Audibly, he grumbled the next second, "Mercy must have stolen it."
"What?" Mr. Young asked, having to strain to hear.
Phil glanced up at him and then back down at the bag. "Some girls at school stole my bag as a joke. I got it back, but they must have taken the book."
"What book was it?" Sara asked again, looking at Phil this time.
Phil glared. Luckily, Mr. Young – bless his soul – diverted her. "Sara," he said, frowning down at her, "where's your hat?"
Sara looked up at him, blinked, and walked down the nearest aisle. Mr. Young narrowed his eyes and leaned his torso around Olga to bark, startling Phil, "Sara!"
"It fell in the lake," she yelled back, disappearing behind a shelf.
"What?" When Sara didn't respond, Mr. Young sighed and scrubbed a hand down one side of his face. "That's the fifth time this week," he mumbled helplessly. "Jen's not going to be happy with me."
Phil's bag sat forgotten at his side, hooked around his fingers. His eyes were wide and disturbed. "You two seem awfully familiar," he quietly noted, glancing suspiciously down the aisle Sara had spirited down.
Mr. Young sighed again and sat his hands back on the counter. "We oughta be," he replied. "She's my niece."
Phil whipped his head back up to gawk at him. "You're related?"
"Of course." Mr. Young continued to frown, although now it was more confused than upset. "You couldn't tell the resemblance?"
Phil stared up at the man, then bluntly replied, "No."
Mr. Young's mouth twitched up. "Well, about your book problem—" he began, and Phil tensed.
Sara came marching back out of the blue, a large file folder in her hands. "We keep really popular and well-known books in stock for both renting and selling," she cut in without ceremony, looking at Phil with her back straight. "If you wanted, you could just buy the book and we'll stamp another for rental. That's often easier and smarter than paying the overdue fee. Most everything is cheap here."
"As books should be," Mr. Young softly interjected, earning an upward flick of Sara's eyes.
Phil frowned at her, unwilling to consider the implications of her deception just yet, and looked up at Mr. Young. "I don't want to buy it just so Mercy can hold onto it. I'll pay the overdue and come back next week once I get it back."
Mr. Young hesitated a moment before saying, "Are you sure? This is the sixth time you've rented it."
Phil stared, drooped and unmoving. Olga tilted her head down at him a second, having been suppressing a smile throughout the conversation, then swept her eyes back up to meet Mr. Young's. "I'll buy it," she announced.
Phil snapped his eyes to her. "Huh?" He blinked and straightened. "No—"
"Really," Olga said, smiling warmly at him, "it's not a problem. If it doesn't inconvenience them and you like it, I'm happy to do it."
"But," Phil tried helplessly to object, but was apparently overruled because the next moment Mr. Young and Olga were talking business and prices and Olga was insisting on paying more and Mr. Young wasn't having it—
Phil followed the back-and-forth for a little while, his face contorted in pain and displeasure, when he became aware of eyes on him. Glancing over at Sara's gaze, he sneered slightly and asked, "What are you staring at?"
Sara's eyelids fell. "A little boy who loves making everything difficult."
Phil's eyes expanded and then abruptly narrowed. "So I don't want the book, so what? And what have you got against cheap books anyhow?"
"Nothing," she denied, but Phil retorted, "I saw you roll your eyes."
Sara stared at him another second, then looked away to stare at something just over his head, as if she were bored, and adjusted the folder in her arms. "You should really stop making assumptions about me."
"If it's an assumption made with few other possibilities available, then it's barely an assumption," he groused. "Why else would you roll your eyes?"
"Because he rambles about books and how outrageous he thinks prices are all the time," she mumbled. "It's practically all he talks abou—"
"Why did you lie to me?" Phil asked sharply, unexpectedly to both of them, and leaned up to scowl into her face. Her eyes bore into him, and his bore back harder. "He's your uncle. That's why you thought I'd look for you here. Why didn't you just tell me that? Afraid I might come here looking for you again? Because I already told you, your fear is wasted on me."
"You're a loose cannon," was all she had to reply with at first, frowning with her eyebrows drawn. Then she said, just soft enough for only him to hear, "I do things for a reason. Just because I don't bother telling you that reason doesn't mean it doesn't exist." Her shoulders hunched uncomfortably, and she muttered to the spot just to her left, "Occam's razor."
"Excuse me?"
"Among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected," she recited blandly. "The principle can get a little complicated, but basically what I'm saying is that you should stick with facts, because anything you assume is unlikely to be accurate." Even quieter, she muttered, "Or even close to accurate."
"Are you calling me stupid?" he breathed out in a hot whisper, his arms crossing defensively across his chest.
"I'm calling you," she said slowly, patiently, still to the spot, "nothing you could correctly assume."
Phil eyed her distastefully, stepping pointedly on the spot, and ducked a little to look at her. "And why's that?" he asked to her face, tartly.
"Because you always assume the worst," she huffed, taking a step away from him and shaking her head, finally meeting his eyes again. "I don't think you're stupid. Honestly, I don't know what to think of you anymore. You're just a stranger. You're nothing."
Phil's glare faded away somewhere by the end of that, leaving little in his expression. Something sharp and unpleasant did barrel rolls in his chest as he slowly unbent, and Sara shifted as she realized how that sounded out loud. She looked like she might say something more, but Olga's voice startled them out of the conversation.
"What do you say, Sara?" she asked gleefully, her face bright. When Sara just blinked at her, her smile stretched and eyes sparkled. "Did you not hear? I asked if you'd like to accompany us to the mall. Mr. Young said you have little to do around here."
Sara's eyes widened and darted to her uncle. Mr. Young's mouth quirked. "You and Phil are obviously acquainted," he said lightly. Too lightly. "I thought you'd appreciate getting away from the old bookstore for the day."
Sara's face soured. "I—"
"It's settled then," Mr. Young declared and turned a wide smile on Olga, which she returned with zest. Olga clapped her hands then, said, "Marvelous! This'll be so much fun! I'll go get Zack," and strode briskly away to do just that.
Phil and Sara stood stiffly next to each other. Briefly, they looked at one another and then awkwardly away again. Coughing, Sara muttered, "I'll get my coat," and sauntered down the aisle towards the back, the folder wrinkling in her fingers. Phil looked down and started piling his books back in his bag, doing his best not to grumble since Mr. Young was smiling down at him not five feet away.
Meanwhile, Olga turned down the third row of bookcases to find Zack cross-legged on the floor, an open book scooted half off his lap and a cell phone currently occupying his attention. His eyes were heavy lidded and a peaceful smile was present on his face as he stared into it, and even when Olga walked up to stand right in front of him, he didn't react. Olga took this as an opportunity to observe him at his most natural, free of social niceties and spirited jokes, and found the sight rather adorable. Fondly, she touched a hand to the top of his head and murmured, "Zachary."
His head popped up, and he looked disoriented a second before his eyes focused on her. "Oh." He looked down, between the book and his phone before placing the phone in his mouth a second so he could close the book and set it back on the shelf. He stood then, with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, and gingerly extracted the phone from his lips. He grinned and held it tight between his hands. "Hey, Auntie, you guys ready to go?"
"Oh, yes. We're going to the mall in just a minute."
Zack went suddenly, unnaturally still. He blinked slowly, and shifted his weight on his right leg, grin undiminished but… different. "The mall, huh?" He was very casual. His fingers moved blindly over the phone as he said, "You know, that's actually really convenient. There are some things I've been needing to get at the mall. In fact, why don't I go on ahead of you guys? We can meet back up at the front in, say, three hours?"
Olga's eyebrows shot up. "You—"
"Oh, don't worry, I do this all the time. I am fourteen, you know. Plus I'm sure you'd appreciate the quality time with little Phillums. I'd just get in the way—I do that. I'm told it's the hair, but I think it's just my vivacious personality," he flittered his head, chuckling. "I'm just always there, you know? It's uncanny. And distracting." His fingers flew over the keys of his phone.
"Oh." Olga blinked, struggling to keep up with his rambling. "Well—I, um, suppose—"
"Great!" A beaming smile exploded across his face and in an instant he was smashing a kiss to the side of her cheek, declaring, "Love you, see you soon, bye," and racing out the door like his life depended on it. The door jingled prettily behind him.
Olga put a hand to her cheek and stared over her shoulder, befuddled.
The cab ride to the mall was exactly ten minutes long.
Ten minutes spent with Olga making jokes with a flustered driver, nearly causing them to crash no less than six times on the way over, while Phil and Sara sat rigid beside each other. Once or twice, Sara's breathing became conspicuously deep and slow, and Phil had to resist jabbing her in the side to get her to cut it out. He wasn't able to stop himself from kicking her foot once, though, but she hadn't reacted. For some reason that ticked him off more than if she'd opened up the car door and shoved him out, and his own breathing got fast and rattle-y as a result, along with his entire upper torso going twitchy. She hadn't reacted to that, either, though, which had only exacerbated the issue, and Phil was sure that she was fully aware of that.
Once at the mall, the first thing Olga did was wander into a shoe store. The first thing Sara did was try to sneak away in the opposite direction, and the first thing Phil did was catch her by the belt, growl, "Oh no you don't," and pull her into the store after him. If he was going down, he was dragging her down with him. He told her as much once they were inside, quite strenuously in fact, but she'd merely looked away.
And that was where they'd been for the past twenty-six minutes. Phil had counted, because there was nothing else to do. They'd both been standing by the door watching Olga charm the salesman, a pimply-faced teenager who seemed totally content to melt into a smitten puddle at her booted feet and giggle every five seconds, as it became increasingly obvious Olga wasn't going to be entertaining them any time soon or even acknowledging their presence or, say, taking them to someplace a little less awful and maybe a bit more kid-friendly. Like the crematorium.
The good news was Sara was starting to fidget. Normally by this time, Phil would be on his hands and knees bashing his head into the floor, but heck if he was going to be the first one to break. As far as he was concerned anymore, this was war.
Finally, another two minutes later – Angels, prepare your harps – Sara muttered, "These shoes are ugly."
Phil muttered dryly back, "My heart aches for your plight."
"I'm sure," she mumbled, shifting a bit away.
He tensed. "What's that supposed to mean? No, wait," his whisper grew sarcastic, "nothing I could correctly assume, right?"
Sara's eyes flicked up to stare at the gold chandelier hanging from a swooping white ceiling, and breathed out a little harsher than usual. Phil took this as a win. "Even your assumptions about your assumptions are off base," she murmured, almost too quietly to hear, like she hadn't really intended it as a reply. This was confirmed when she raised her voice to say, "Not everything is meant as a slight, you know. I'm not interested in getting into a fight with you."
Phil abruptly crossed his arms. "Yeah, I know you're not interested in anything."
"Uh-huh," she murmured carelessly, like she'd lost interest in talking to him. Phil clenched his teeth, but as there was little he could respond to that with, they lapsed again into silence.
Phil didn't let it last. With a respite from the mind-numbing boredom offered, he didn't blame himself for being the one to break it this time. He did so by crossing his arms tighter and saying, almost mopily, "There's something very wrong with you."
Sara made a strange noise – somewhere between a gargle and a snort – and shifted even further away, turning her body a little ways, as if to observe a display. Phil jumped a bit, having not expected this, and glanced at her for the first time since their arrival. Her coat was a long, dark yellow thing that hung thick and baggy over her torso, her dark hair tied back with the same thin yellow ribbon from before, and her legs still covered by those infernal socks. It was... a lot of yellow. Phil was pretty sure he knew what her favorite color was now. It was a dry thought, and a little late in coming, but there it was.
He switched his attention back to Olga and griped, "You used to be nice, you know." He felt her eyes on him and hardened his frown. "When we met. You smiled at me several times."
"You were a customer."
Phil stiffened at the simple explanation and said nothing. His expression grew increasingly dark.
An indeterminate length of time passed. Sara kept shifting her feet and splaying her fingers restlessly, but Phil was still as a statue.
"Look," she said, turning her body around to speak directly to him. He didn't acknowledge her. "It's looking like we're going to be stuck together for a while, so I—" She stopped for a moment, seeming to go through an internal struggle, before beginning again with a forced kindness, "I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot. The wrong leg. You seem... I mean. We could—I mean. We could..."
"Poetry," he muttered in a monotone. "Write that down, quick."
Her hands, which had been up and grasping for words in the air, abruptly fell and her back straightened. She appraised him for long seconds. He didn't know what for, he couldn't see her expression, but he didn't care, so it didn't matter.
Just as sudden as the halt of her less than eloquent attempt at communication, she said mildly, "I'm sorry I said you were nothing." He flinched, and she went on immediately, encouraged by his reaction, "I didn't mean it how it sounded. You're not nothing. I just meant that I... I've felt really off lately. After everything." A pause, then she stuffed her hands in her coat pockets and added, "I know you must be pretty stressed, too, with the whole curse thing and... whatever. I get it. Sort of. Could we just... start over?"
Phil turned his head slowly to look coldly at her. "Maybe I'm not interested in starting over."
Sara's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then this is going to be a very boring day."
He jerked his head stubbornly away. "So be it."
"Don't be like that," she sounded almost pleading. "It doesn't have to be like this."
He clenched his teeth down at the carpet. "I don't know any other way to be."
The silence was thick this time.
"Right," he heard her mutter, and fabric shift. "Well. I'm gonna go to the arcade. If you want to join me, you can." She started to step around him.
Phil grabbed her arm and cuttingly scolded, "You can't go, my aunt's responsible for you."
Sara glanced back at him, still facing the exit. Her expression was strange, her eyebrows slightly furrowed, like he'd just suggested something preposterous. "She's not going to care—and neither will my uncle if he hears about it. I do this all the time. I can take care of myself."
"You're a kid."
"I'm eleven," she said matter-of-fact, as if that changed everything.
"Ohhh, got one foot in the grave, huh?" was the automatic response before his eyes widened, then abruptly narrowed. He pulled on her arm. "Hey, wait, you said you were in the fifth grade."
"Because I am." She nodded, and took gentle hold of his hand on her arm, attempting to pry it off. He tightened his hold. She frowned at it, then him. "I skipped a lot of school last semester, so I got held back."
"You skipped school?"
She pursed her lips tightly and grabbed his hand with sudden strength, wrenching it off. Her hand was rough in his before she let it go and took a long step back, away from where he could grab her again. She pointed to the exit, her smile small, funny and wrong. "Arcade. Bye. Enjoy the shoes." And with that, she ambled out of the store.
Phil stretched his torso around to gape at her retreating form out the window, then snapped his head back to look at Olga, seeing that she was still laughing with the oily teen, then back around through the window. After a moment of frenzied inner panic, he threw his head back, groaned, and marched stiffly out of the store. Once out, he stopped a second and braced himself with one eye clenched shut, waiting to see if lightning would strike him down. When none did, he released a tense breath and raced after Sara.
She was walking at a quick pace, but not quick enough that he couldn't catch up to her with relative ease. Jogging behind her, he panted angrily, "This is just normal for you, isn't it? Bailing all the time—no sense of duty—hiding from everything—" He jogged ahead, so he was just beside her.
She rolled her eyes. She thought he couldn't see her, but he could. He so could— "I have my reasons," she said, tone light as air.
"Ugh, you and your reasons," he huffed. "Are you planning on filling me in on what any of those are any time soon?"
She hummed deliberatingly, her eyes straight ahead, and Phil found he had to speed up his pace to keep up with her. At last, after several seconds more of nothing but absent hemming and hawing and Phil having to resist the urge to push, she said simply, "I don't see the point in doing that."
"A point? You need a point? O-ho-kay!" He snatched her by the belt again and stopped, digging his heels into the floor, and though it wasn't enough to fully stop her, it at least slowed her down. "Here's the point! You've lied to my face, manipulated me, avoided me like the plague, made my life a living heck, and you're currently trying to get me in trouble by dragging me halfway across the stinking shopping mall! You want a fresh start? Well, too bad! Because we've already come too far for that! You owe me a thorough explanation for the all the treachery you've caused! There's your stupid point, now talk—"
Sara stopped. Phil stayed latched onto her belt, hanging. It was late in the day on a lazy Sunday, and the mall was relatively empty, save for a few stragglers and dedicated teenage girls wandering mindlessly about. They were currently right by the fountain, the water shushing loudly to their far left, and Sara's head twitched, then turned to look at him with a pinched face. She opened her mouth, looked like she was about to spit something nasty, but then, just like that, it was gone. Her expression deflated into soft quiescence once more.
Phil's lips thinned. "Start talking or so help me—" He stopped, every muscle in his body going instantly taut. A loud wheezing resonating off the corridor – a flash of red in the distance – and Phil's eyes dilated.
In a change too swift to track, he was straight and pushing Sara towards the nearest store, whispering, "Go, go, go, go, go," so fast and with such profound terror in his voice that Sara could do nothing but gasp and comply.
It wasn't until they were safely hidden behind an unoccupied desk at the far back of the perfume department (so she couldn't detect his scent) that Sara asked, "What in the worl—"
He slapped a hand over her mouth and put a finger over his lips, shaking his head.
By the time he felt safe enough to let go of Sara's mouth, her eyebrows had become good friends with the ceiling, and her eyes were wide and blinking. Slowly, she peeked her head around the desk, searching for what had him so wound up, then sat back when the effort proved fruitless. Her eyes were lidded now, and her mouth quirked as she said, "This is just normal for you, huh? Hiding—"
Phil didn't appreciate the parallel. "Shut up," he whispered harshly, hugging his knees to his chest. "This isn't a laughing matter. We almost died."
"How so?" she asked skeptically.
He stared for a second, unblinking, before he shifted and turned his head down to pout at the floor. "I don't want to talk about it."
"You don't want to talk about it," she repeated slowly, eyes widening, before falling half-closed again. "That sounds familiar."
"Shut up," he commanded again, his fingers tightening into his jeans.
"I think I'm owed an explanation," she taunted. It didn't sound like a taunt, not on the surface, but Phil heard it for what it was. Phil knew, and he clenched his eyes shut at the sound. "You did just push me and—"
"I get it," he huffed, shortly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Dolly was nowhere in sight. "Look at you, you have a sense of humor. Good for you. I don't want to hear it."
"Well, I do." He whipped his head around, surprised at the unexpected force behind her words, and it was a good thing because she was shifting closer and leaning a little over him in a poor approximation of when he'd pinned her down before. Her face was shadowed by her bangs, but her eyes were bright and immobilizing. "You're keeping me from the arcade right now, and I want to know why. Ever since I met you, things like this keep happening. People keep bothering me and pushing me around and treating me like dirt and I'm tired of it. I haven't done anything to deserve it. But you—" she pointed a finger at him, her eyes over-wide and eyebrows high again, "you have."
His eyes shifted from the finger to her eyes, and back, before settling on her face. "You're saying I deserve to... what?"
"Be bugged," she said simply, serenely, and gripped him by the front of his jacket, pulling him up with her as she stood. "You want an explanation, you have to give one. And we're not going back to the Shoes R Boring. You and me, arcade—come on." She tugged him out from behind the counter and into the aisle, past the brightly lit counters topped with countless colorful bottles of perfume and other assorted body odors.
Phil was in deep pain and breathed anxiously, "But we'll get in trouble, we can't—"
Sara turned to look at him, but didn't stop pulling, "You really don't get it, do you? This is exactly what your aunt wants. She's matchmaking. That's why she left us alone."
Phil's mind whirled like a top over this new piece of information before smashing into a wall. "No," he denied immediately, sure that couldn't be the case. Why would Olga care anything about his love life?
But Sara shook her head and stopped, snatched up a bottle of perfume and gave it a sniff as she debunked his entire perception of his aunt (being the second to do that this month, and speaking of, people really needed to cut that out—), "I saw my uncle and your aunt watching us from the window when we were outside the double B. I don't know about your aunt, but it's just like my uncle to do something like this. He loves meddling in my life."
Phil turned that over in his head several times, his eyes darting in frantic thought from under furrowed eyebrows. It didn't make any sense to him, and he wondered if Sara was trying to manipulate him again into going along with what she wanted with her soft, melodious voice and offensively persuasive way of putting things. Girls liked doing stuff like that to try to get guys to cooperate—he'd seen it happen enough times (though it had never happened to him before). He was still struggling to come to terms with the whole 'genius' aspect of Olga's personality, though, and now she was trying to set him up? And with Sara?
It wasn't that it didn't seem right, or accurate with the odd way his afternoon had been going, or even that it wasn't typical of his life to be that cruelly ironic, but just that it felt... ridiculous.
Olga was an all-around ridiculous person, apparently.
While he was coming to grips with all this, Sara sprayed a large puff of the perfume onto her clothes, her neck and her wrists, sat it back down with its family and then began back down the aisle, tugging him gently along.
He managed one final protest, "This still doesn't feel right—" but Sara cut him off with a soothing, "Shhh, you don't have to worry so much. It's okay to not be right all the time if there's a good, righter reason for it. Haven't you ever just wanted to have fun, without someone breathing down your neck?"
And words were suddenly impossible.
"Watch out for the barrel!"
"Hmm-mm."
"There's another one! And another! They just keep coming—Oh creation...!"
"Uh-huh."
"Jump! Jump! Jump!"
"Yep."
"This is horrible! Why are we purposely subjecting ourselves to this? I'm gonna pass out—Oh criminy jump!"
Sara reached blindly over to pat him on the shoulder, but ended up awkwardly stroking the side of his head instead and snapped her hand back to take hold of the joystick again. "Maybe you shouldn't watch," she suggested a little awkwardly.
Phil ripped his gawking eyes off of the screen for a second to glare at the side of her face. "Why? You think I can't handle a stupid—Agh, that one's on fire!" He choked and snapped his body around, back sliding down the side of the game and hand shielding his eyes.
Sara grinned down at the console.
Phil sighed loudly and Sara quickly schooled her face. Phil turned just enough to frown at her, while avoiding the video game screen and all the barrels rolling down it. "Would you start explaining already? I wanna get out of here."
Sara's eyes darted over the screen, her movements smooth and controlled. "Why do I have to go first?" she muttered, as her character leaped over another barrel and the game issued a happy ping.
Phil flailed his hands a little and spazzed out the words, "Because you dragged me here and I can't think with all these blinking flashy lights and obnoxious beepy noises," before tucking his hands under his armpits and pouting at her shoes.
Sara sent him a funny look. Her face was almost white in the lambent glow of the game, and the violet of her eyes looked nearly spectral. Phil flicked his eyes up and felt them widen, his own face illuminated in flashes of brilliant color. She looked back at the screen. "How do I know you won't refuse to tell me after I'm done?"
Phil took a moment to process that before scoffing. "Umm, because I'm not a dirty trickster?" Sara sent him a couple quick skeptical glances. His shoulders rose with resentment. "I'll keep my word! Really! It's not like it matters if you know anyway. Who are you gonna tell?" He gave a low snort. "S'like confiding to a wall."
"Yuh-huh," Sara muttered, as several joyful pings jumped out of the machine. She licked her lips. "How about—we take turns asking questions? That's fair."
Phil's eyebrows went down the same second his eyes widened. "You don't trust me."
"Should I?" she asked distractedly. He growled in frustration, but before he could pick a fight, she added, her voice gaining consciousness, "Seriously, I think it would go faster that way. I don't know about you, but I have a lot of questions."
"Hey," Phil grabbed the side of the game, leaning over a little on his toes to glare sternly at her, "I only agreed to tell you why I hid us earlier, not anything else!"
Sara shrugged. "It's mostly confirmation I'm seeking. I already know this 'curse' thing is what had you acting so weird."
"So?"
"So, it's not a big deal. Calm yourself." She jerked the joystick to the left and tapped the jump button. "Besides, you really have disrupted my life a ton. I think I deserve some answers." The game suddenly burst into digital techno music, enthusiastically announcing her conquering of the game, and Sara turned to face him, leaning against the console on one of her arms. A single dark eyebrow was raised almost to her bangs. "And I am a friendless loser, remember?"
Phil's eyes stayed narrowed as he eyed her soft face. Her tone wasn't any different from usual, but her words were clearly sarcastic. Or at least they would have been coming out of anyone else's mouth, his own especially. Hearing them spoken with such airy indifference was just weird. Phil humphed suddenly, his impatience winning out. "Fine, whatever. Let's just go. I wasn't kidding when I said I can't think in here." Without waiting for her agreement, he turned around and marched out of the arcade, away from its dark, colorful, freezing atmosphere and back into the world of powerful artificial lighting, temperature control and chat-happy shoppers.
Several steps later, Phil stopped and listened. Hearing nothing, he growled and turned swiftly around to march back into the arcade. He found Sara hiding at the back of the room with an obnoxious pinball game and had to physically drag her away. Sara resisted fiercely for a couple minutes, her fingers hooked tightly around the paddles, but eventually allowed him to pull her away with a sigh.
"We're not going back to shoes," she instructed him.
"Only if you back up a few steps," Phil said. "The twelve gallons of perfume radiating around you is trying to give me cancer."
Sara gave him yet another weird look as they walked past an earring stand. "You'll have to let go of my arm first."
Phil's eyebrows cut down and he looked down to see, indeed, he was still holding onto her arm. He jerked his hand away and frowned at it, as Sara obligingly distanced herself three steps, and then a fourth, just for good measure.
"Late lunch?" Sara suggested, her eyes lingering on a suspended ad for fried chicken.
Phil stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. "Already ate."
"You could get a drink, I'll get food?"
"You're hungry," Phil observed blandly, eyes ahead.
Sara brought her eyes down to smirk at him. "Was I really that obvious?"
Phil shot her a raised eyebrow, and she flicked her eyes up. The smirk was still on her face, but it wasn't the broad, undeniable, obnoxious one he was used to seeing from his family (namely Zack). It was subtle, barely there. Something about that set him a little more at ease, which made him want to get angry, but he was having trouble mustering the energy. After a few minutes of walking, he finally gave up and sighed, "Have anywhere in mind?"
Sara's eyes lit up.
"I really didn't take you for the masochistic type."
Sara finished packing the hot sauce on her spicy fried anchovies and sat the bottle down with a soft thunk. She then picked up her fork, gathered up a generous portion, and shoved it in her mouth. She chewed slowly, her eyes bright in the blue neon light weaving through the Indian restaurant.
She wasn't even flinching. Phil cradled his tea closer and sunk down in the booth across from her. "Did you sell your soul to the devil or something?"
Sara swallowed half of what was in her mouth and stuffed the other half in her cheek. "First question," she requested.
Phil's face contorted. "Don't talk with your mouth full."
Sara stopped chewing for a second. She blinked, then stuffed more food into her mouth and spoke over the large orange blob, "Yuh shub w'ly sop bwossin' me awound. I's gebbing olb."
Phil's eyes went from wide to hazed in the span of a second. He placed a palm over his eyes and tilted his head down. "And the eleven year old has magically turned five, right before your very eyes," he muttered. "Be amazed, be very amazed."
Sara swallowed and slapped a hand over her mouth quick, her shoulders jumping. She let it fall after a few seconds and shook her head. "The mall is my dominion," she said, not unkindly. "I respect your space, you respect mine. First question."
He peeked at her through his fingers. "How about we start with why you're determined to burn out all your taste buds?"
Sara's eyes gleamed at the question, and she smirked again, already beginning to spear more anchovies onto her fork. "I just love flavor, that's all. I have a very high tolerance for it. In fact, I was the three time fire ball champ back in my hometown. Anything hot, spicy or sour you can think to name, I can eat." She smiled a little proudly, the tips of her teeth peeking through. When he didn't react, she sobered. Mouth shrinking, her eyes flicked over and down. "But that's a waste of a turn. Ask me something relevant."
Phil sighed gustily and turned his face up again, although he kept his hand over his eyes, just in case. "Okay, okay. Let's start at the beginning—No." He suddenly dropped his hand and jolted his torso forward over the table, eyes wide. "I know! Let's start with the fact you apparently skipped school," he hissed the last part in a whisper, squinting his eyes.
Sara blinked and took a long sip of her water. Phil knew she was doing it to stall but couldn't help but be a little comforted by the small bit of proof that she really was human and not, say, a demon sent to infiltrate PS 118 and destroy all life within a hundred kilometers. She sat her cup down gently and met his eyes, apparently unfazed by the fact he was right in her face. "I told you if there's a good, righter reason for doing something wrong, then it's okay."
"And you had a righter reason?" Phil cautiously asked, an eyebrow arched disbelievingly. Just the fact she'd said she 'skipped' school before and not 'missed' said a lot about both the situation and her view on it. She knew exactly what she'd done and wasn't the least bit uncomfortable with her decision. And it was a decision, he could tell that much.
Her eyes flickered with something dark. "The rightest reason you can possibly imagine." She blinked heavily, eyes cloudy, then stuffed more of her food into her mouth and averted her eyes. "And tha's all 'm gon'a say abou' i'."
Phil seriously doubted there was any reason right enough to miss out on an education, but he was tired of trying to fight information out of her, so he threw himself back in his seat with an exaggerated sigh. "Like talking to a wall," he repeated the ceiling. "A wall that tells riddles."
Sara chewed for a little longer before swallowing. She looked at him and smiled that same, weird smile that just didn't look right somehow. Phil was a little annoyed he still couldn't figure out why that was, but before he could think more on it, she said, "My turn."
Phil stiffened and frowned at his tea.
Sara had her mouth open, poised to ask the dreaded question, but at his expression, her mouth closed and face softened. "Are you uncomfortable?" she asked gently, eyes alight with compassion.
Phil's shoulders tensed further. "Um, yeah. Kinda." Wondering if she might let him out of it now that she seemed to be in a better mood, he flicked his eyes to her and tried to keep the hope out of his voice as he not-so-hintily hinted, "I've never talked to anyone about this before. Doing it now feels wrong."
Sara nodded understandingly and sat back. She picked her fork back up and speared several more anchovies onto it before shoving it in her mouth. "Tha's wough, I ca' welate," she said. "Wh' di' yew hi' uff eawier?"
Phil's eyes bulged. He blinked several times and shuddered once, before releasing a breath as he stared. "You're disgusting."
"Fank yew."
Phil banged his elbows up onto the table in exasperation and covered his face with his hands, rubbing slowly. The little restaurant wasn't anymore packed than the rest of the mall that day, and the only sounds were the faint buzzing of soda machines, whispered conversation and Sara's quiet chewing. He savored the peace as long as he could, levelling his breathing, and was relieved Sara didn't begrudge him this moment to collect himself. Finally, he forced out through his teeth, "I hid us because if I didn't, we'd have been brutally murdered by a friend of mine who claims to l—like me."
"Oh, you mean Dolly."
Phil's hands slammed down on the table. "How the heck did you know that?" he shouted, his voice grating in the previously cool atmosphere.
Sara's eyes were a little wide now, and her cup of water hovered frozen in front of her lips as she stared at his stricken face. Ha. He actually managed to surprise her. He fancied he'd have felt rather triumphant right then had his brain not been fizzling. After a tense moment, Sara exhaled slowly and sat her cup back down, her fingers still tight around the base. "Most people know about your girlfriend," she said quietly, consciously. "She's almost as infamous as you are."
"Know about my..." Phil mouthed, then crashed down against the table with a groan. "She's not my girlfriend. She's never been my girlfriend."
Sara carefully slid her styrofoam container away from his sagged corpse, her face thoughtful. "I was wondering about that," she murmured, tapping her paper cup.
Phil drudged his head out of his arms and stared forward, eyes unseeing and shiny with misery. His arms spread out to grab hold of the table as an anchor. "It started in second grade shortly after a trip our families took to Central America. We were friends before, just friends. I still don't—" He stopped suddenly. He blinked. He blinked again, then lifted his head to stare at her. "Almost as infamous as me... But that..." All other brain function skidded to a halt. "You... You did know who I was when we met."
Sara had been sipping at her drink while he had his realization, and now sat it against the wall so she could support her face in her hands. "Yeah."
"And you didn't run screaming."
She gave a light snort. "No."
Phil's eyes narrowed, first with incomprehension, and then with rising offense. "Was—Was I like a science experiment to you?"
Sara smiled and shook her head, like he'd just made an endearingly bad joke. "I didn't go there on purpose to observe you. I didn't even know you lived there. I'd seen you in the halls and heard tons of stories, but I never thought I'd get to talk to you. It was... surprising."
Phil blinked, disturbed. He slid at a snail's speed back into his seat. Several seconds passed as this occurred, and then... "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why didn't you run? Didn't you hate me?"
Sara actually narrowed her eyes at that, and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked overtly mad. Her hands dropped against the table and her posture straightened. "Why? Because of rumors? All the bad-mouthing surrounding you is about you being smart, which there's nothing wrong with, or annoying, which everyone is, or having a big mouth, and I didn't even know what that meant. I mean, you always looked angry, so I figured it probably had something to do with that, but I had no way of knowing." She blinked the emotion out of her eyes, and a small, ironic smile wriggled suddenly across her mouth. "I do now, but. Anger's just a defense. It's nothing to hate anyone about. We all get mad sometimes." The anger settled back on her face, even stronger than before, and she glared down at her hands. "You always have to acclimate to society, society never acclimates to you. It's… not right. If I believed in rumors, then I'd also have to believe I'm a stupid attention-starved narcissistic snob." She puffed out a heavy breath, her eyes oddly shiny, then the anger fell away and, with a hand running over her face, her breathing became smooth and even once again. She sighed then and let her cheek fall down against her palm with a light smack as she looked at him with her usual despondence. "They don't mean anything. It's just kids being kids."
Phil stared at her, his face blank and eyes slightly wide. A pin could be heard dropping from full across the room. The woman who dropped it quickly picked it back up, hooked it back in her dress, and shuffled out of the restaurant. Sara flicked her eyes over to watch this, but Phil's eyes stayed bulleted to her face.
The memory of their first meeting played in a fast black-and-white loop in his head, her words the grainy soundtrack, while he considered how they connected to one another. She'd known his reputation then. She'd known all along, and she hadn't cared. She'd been caught off guard at first, that was obvious, but after that it was almost as if she'd gone out of her way to be nice to him. Sure, she'd only done it because she wanted to make a sale, but… She'd still treated him like a regular person. She'd still smiled and respected his space and talked to him like he mattered. She'd even apologized to him when she thought she might have offended him.
And he'd called her a loser and slammed the door in her face.
Guilt tore through him, landing in a swirling, uncomfortable knot high in his chest—along with something else, something softer that he didn't have the heart to analyze. The restaurant was even quieter than before.
He blinked. Exhaled. "Why," he started, but his voice cracked, sounding foreign and faraway to his own ears. He slid his palms closer, down the table, and tried again, "Why are you so weird?"
Sara snapped her eyes back to him and frowned, her head lifting slightly from her hand. "What?"
He tried to shake himself out of this strange mood that had settled over him. Didn't work. He sighed and sat back, resigned, and said, "Everything about you. Just..." he waved a hand in the air, multiple thoughts occurring to him at once and scrambling his brain, and was relieved to feel a modicum of irritation, "you—When you came to the boarding house, you wanted to sit out on the stoop and wait, instead of moving on down the neighborhood. What was that about?"
Sara's mouth grew small. "Isn't it my turn to ask a question?"
"Don't change the subject," he tiredly requested.
Sara looked surprised at not being outright commanded, and then a little uncomfortable, like she'd just noticed the mood that had settled around them. She shifted in her seat, awkwardly slid her food back over and picked around, her face tilted down. "My mom had to go early to work, so I just figured that... um..."
Phil's mouth pulled to one side, flummoxed. "And before, Mr. Young said you keep dropping your hat in the lake."
"That..."
"And you don't fake the accent."
"I... uh..."
"And you're in drama club, but you spend it hiding under a stage and handing out water."
"Well—"
"And you don't talk to anyone."
Sara let her fork clatter onto the table and lifted her head, looking lost and a little aggravated. "Stop, I don't want to talk about—" She stopped, and her mouth snapped shut. Phil had to smirk, just a little. She caught sight of it and suddenly shoved an anchovy in her mouth, chewed it up a little, and then said, "Okay, fine." She paused a moment, taking in the barely restrained cringe on his face, before continuing sedately between chews, "My mom's been worried about me since we left Maryland, so she had me sign up for some clubs. I didn't want to, but I knew she'd quit worrying if I went along with it, so... I did. I personally picked out Drama, because I knew Mr. Horowitz wouldn't force me to do anything I wasn't comfortable with." She chewed a little faster and her eyes shifted. "But my mom wanted me to join the Campfire Lasses specifically because she knew I'd have to interact with people, and there's a ton of stuff they make you do." She swallowed.
Alarm, skepticism and disgust all battled for dominance on Phil's face. "That doesn't answer any of my questions."
Sara shook her head, her ghostly countenance restored, and closed the lid on the last scraps of her food, pushing herself taller against the booth. "It answers all of them. Are you ready to go?"
Phil blinked up at her, vague disgust having finally won, then sent a quick look down at his untouched darjeeling. He picked it up with a roll of his eyes. "Oh, sure. Back to shoe central. Boy oh boy."
As he knew she would, she slouched back into her seat. Phil pointedly sat his cup back down and laughed at her for not thinking that one through, the sound frighteningly unrestrained and slightly off kilter. It was disturbing enough to his own ears that anything that had been genuine in his amusement was killed, but the laughter didn't stop pouring forth. Sara flicked her eyes to him and pressed her lips into a line.
"How do you know my uncle?" she asked suddenly.
Phil put a finger up to indicate for her to wait as he laughed and laughed and took a quick sip of his tea before it got totally cold then laughed some more. Sara blinked, unimpressed, and that look got him to stop immediately and flatly inquire, "Is he really your uncle?"
Sara's blank look turned slightly bewildered. "Of course. Couldn't you tell the resemblance?"
Phil's face somehow managed to go even flatter before his eyes blinked and returned to their usual hooded state. "No. But anyway…" He took a long, leisurely moment to swallow down half of his tea, aware of Sara's eyes on him the whole time, then slowly – very slowly – sat it down and gave a soft refreshed sigh. After smacking his lips for several seconds into her frowning face, he asked flatly, "Not so fun when you're on the other end of the stick, is it?"
Sara's eyes went abnormally wide. Her expression was a peculiar one right before she slapped her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes. Phil was momentarily alarmed, wondering if she was holding back puke or something, but after a few moments, she let the hand fall and regarded him with passing composure. "I answered several questions for you, now you have to answer."
The distraction worked. A scoff burst from Phil's mouth. "I think we have very different opinions on what constitutes an answer!"
"Actually—"
Phil rolled his eyes. "I've been going to Baltimore for years. It's my brother and I's tradition to get corn dogs and check out the new books every Sunday. There, happy? Now—"
"I've been there almost every day," Sara interrupted. "For three months."
Phil clapped his mouth shut at that and furrowed his eyebrows. "You've been... And we never once ran into each other—"
"Apparently."
"So we've been missing each other for weeks." His frown deepened. "That's... kinda..."
"Creepy," they finished in unison, and stared at each other. The blue neon light above them flickered.
Phil gave a long blink and shook himself, his eyes narrowing. "You're trying to distract me." Sara's cool, peaceful blink confirmed this and he harrumphed. "Well, too bad! I want answers! Real answers!"
"What was the book Mercy stole?" Sara asked.
Phil choked on fresh outrage.
While he spluttered incoherent half-words and sentences, Sara smiled slightly and watched him with her unwavering lavender gaze, and Phil forced all the things trying to stumble out of his mouth back down his throat with an ugly coughing sound, his chest slightly heaving as he glared heatedly at her. Her smile widened a quarter. "It's okay," she said softly. "You don't have to tell me. This way I can just assume it was Why Do Men Have Nipples. Or How to Win in the Fight Against Gastric Dumping Syndrome; The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories; The Girls Book to Glamour—Or maybe even Castration: The Advantages and Disadvantages." She matched her fingers, stretched them out against each other and gave a light shrug. "BB is filled with weird books. It could be... anything."
"I'm not going to tell you!" Phil yelped with a stunned look.
"I said you didn't have to."
"You can't avoid answering me forever!"
"I don't know, I'm succeeding so far."
"I'm gonna kill you!"
"I'm sure."
Phil's beeper buzzed and he froze. His mouth was open to yell and his legs had scooched up on the booth seat to give him added height, but at the vibration in his side, he blinked, and the stunned look was replaced with fear. He scrabbled in his pants pocket to pull it out, and his hands trembled a little as he read the message. Sara watched with interest as Phil grew increasingly tense. "It's my aunt," he stuttered over heavy breathing. "She's upset and wants to know where we are." His face went hot with shame and righteous fury as he snapped his eyes on her. "I told you we shouldn't have left!"
Sara's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Whoops."
"Whoops?!"
"Lemme see." She reached over and tugged at the beeper. He let it go numbly, and she examined it for a few seconds in mild confusion before shrugging and punching in a reply. After a minute, she sent it, and turned her head up to face him again. Phil's face twitched, and she blinked. Finally, the beeper buzzed again and Sara looked down at the screen. She smiled at it then and set it down on the table in front of him. "There we go. Problem solved. Let's go window shop." Without waiting for an answer, she slid out of the booth with her food and cup and walked over to toss them in the trash.
Phil gaped at her back and snatched the beeper up to read Olga's reply. OK u kids have fun! B safe and stick 2gether! ran across the screen in stiff digital lettering. Phil almost dropped it, but scrambled the last second to steady it and hurriedly stuffed it back in his pocket as he slid out onto his feet. "What the heck did you say?" he asked in a high voice, scuffling after her as she walked out of the restaurant.
Sara didn't turn to look at him as she answered, "That we got bored and went to explore. We're meeting back up with her at the fountain in an hour."
Phil caught up to her side and looked at her incredulously. "And she was okay with that."
"I told you she wouldn't care." She breathed deeply through her nose, like she smelled something good, and skimmed the passing windows with moderate interest. Her hands hung at her sides, lightly swinging.
Phil crossed his arms as he walked beside her. "Why an hour? We're still gonna be out for two."
"I have to be getting back in an hour. Uncle said."
"Oh." Phil glanced around, already beginning to grow bored. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. He tilted his head up at her and smirked toothily. "Great. An hour's plenty of time to get you to give me a straight answer."
Sara twisted her head to look curiously at him. "Why do you have a pager?"
The smirk disappeared, and he hopped on his toes to point a wry, reprimanding finger at her. "Oh no, enough with your deflecting. I demand answers!"
Sara's face shifted into something more serious, albeit discomfited, if the way her arms pulled up and eyes darted around in short, dancing patterns was anything to go by. "You didn't really give me a real answer about why we ran away from your..." a struggle was present in her shoulders, and her eyes flicked briefly up, "from Dolly. So I don't see why I should have to give thorough answers, either." An eyebrow went up and her eyes widened by a narrow margin, her chin tilting up. "That is unless you'd like to elaborate."
Phil didn't so much deflate as he did... pop, all at once falling back flat on his feet and slumping over. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and grumbled, "No."
Sara's smile was soft and knowing. "Okay then." She looked around for a few seconds, as if to check that the coast was clear, before facing him again. "Pager?"
Phil looked at her through one squinting eye, and said nothing for a long time. Their footsteps were quiet and in tune, but he blocked them out in favor of the mental hum currently vibrating in his skull. Finally, he clenched his teeth slightly, exhaled in a gust through his nostrils, and blinked his eyes to the floor. "My grandpa runs an electronics empire..." he began begrudgingly, in a quiet sulk. "He has thousands of the things in stock from back when they were still current. He's been trying to unload them for years. Every holiday he can get away with, he doles them out: Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, Arbor Day. Even on Halloween, instead of candy he just hands out beepers." He threw his hands up in a lazy display of exasperation, more venting than explaining now. "He gave this geeky Dracula a concussion last year from throwing one at him when he tried to run away, and then sent a gift basket full of beepers to the hospital the next day as an apology. I have around thirty, all of different colors and types."
Sara was biting her lip when she looked away. "Oh."
Phil eyed her resentfully. "Anymore questions?" Sara opened her mouth, but he was counting on that and spoke again with quick, aggressive precision, "Because I sure don't. If neither of us is going to give real answers to anything important, then this is pointless."
Sara's eyes flicked to his before falling to the floor, her mouth closing soundlessly. She didn't say anything more, and the silence was filled only with the sounds of their steps and the occasional muted dissonance of mall-related activity.
They walked like this for a long time, and for once, Phil was happy for the lull; it gave him some time to think and process all that had taken place in the last hour. Had it really only been a little over sixty minutes ago that his only plans for the day had been watching TV with Ernie and taking a nap? It felt like ages, but the weariness in his tendons served as a reminder of the truth, however improbable. He was walking beside Sara, the very same girl who had spiraled him into such a pathetic state in the first place, on a shopping trip with his aunt, and he was not in love with her, but he didn't hate her, either, and that was confusing. He felt annoyance and frustration, but they were more subdued than usual, and the steady stream of contempt that had been running so shallow beneath the surface of his thoughts had dried up in the face of...
Despite his reputation and whatever may burst out of his mouth in the heat of the moment, he did not actually hate many – if truly any – people. His recent 'realization' that he hated Mercy and her minions was more a quibble of terms based on common sense, because Mercy clearly despised him and her mere existence made him want to move to another galaxy so he figured if hate felt like anything, it was that. The feelings backing it up were tepid, though, almost passive at times, as if he'd long ago lost the ability to feel much of anything about the situation. He imagined hate, true hate, was probably more of a constant burn that rose and whipped and consumed without any conceivable end, like in the movies, and this was... more like the coals after a fire had gone out, still red and glowing and ready to either burst into an inferno or puff into smoke at the slightest provocation. He felt anger, he felt immense, vast dislike and indignation and shame and many other things he'd never bothered to identify and still refused to even now, but real, genuine hate was... something of a foreign concept. Few people in the world were horrible enough to warrant real hatred.
Even still, the word was never far from his thoughts, and in Sara's case, had been popping up frequently, waving and flickering and demanding his attention, just before she said something or did something or looked at him in a certain way and that flicker would just... die. Like a defective jack-in-the-box, constantly appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye. And it was that, the fact that it was defective, that truly inspired his ire. That the majority of his contempt had been pushed aside to house a well of guilt was just... ridiculous, and he felt extremely uncomfortable, like a sheep without its wool. Just the comparison made him want to shiver at its accuracy. How had his day turned into this?
He had thought she was a lie, and he still didn't trust her as far as he could run in the span of a nanosecond, but there was... something. Because she had known who he was when they first met, and it hadn't mattered one bit that nobody liked him. That he was annoying and always said the wrong thing and yelled and glared and was himself. It hadn't mattered at all, and that somehow meant that it did, and it was something.
It was something that he clearly got under her skin and her feelings were mixed and jumbled regarding him and she could look so lost at times but she kept smiling anyway, she kept trying and giving him chance after chance and looking at him with eyes filled with nothing even close to disgust, and she was probably the stupidest person he'd ever met because of all that but for once it didn't bother him. It bothered him that it didn't bother him, but the fact itself did... not.
And as Sara's eyes caught sight of something in a store and she went trotting in without so much as a warning or glance, and he sighed loudly and jogged in after her, he thought that maybe...
Maybe.
Zack had never been happier that the Johanssens lived so close to the docks. It was still a long run to get there, but it was eons better than trying to race all the way to Tina Park. Though originally he thought he'd just grab a cab or find a bus stop, and knew that his aunt likely assumed he'd be doing one of the two as well, he had to save his money for the concert and the next bus wouldn't be coming around for another twenty minutes, which he simply didn't have the time for. So run he did, and aching legs or not, he was happy to do it. There was an exhilaration in running that he didn't often get to feel anymore since he stopped playing sports, and the cool air whipping through his hair and stinging his cheeks was refreshing and nostalgic. Once at the Johanssen household, convincing Jaron to lend him his bike was a simple thing, and the ride to the park was a breeze—not to mention, not that far from the mall.
As usual, this was almost too easy, Zack thought with a wistful sigh. Just for once he'd like something to be at least a little challenging. Life could get so boring otherwise.
Nevertheless, he made it there in just under twenty minutes, just as the show was about to start. It was an alternative rock concert some bands were putting on for relatively cheap, and the park was loaded with teenagers and adults alike, some with chairs and coolers and blankets they'd had the forethought to bring, others watching from a distance in their cars, and most just standing around, awkwardly sitting in the wet grass or muttling about like a flock of aimless geese. It was rather beautiful, Zack would say, with how the sun appeared to set fire to the swooping white tent just over the stage.
He thought it was kind of stupid that his parents didn't want him to come. He knew 'too mature' wasn't the real reason—or at least not the whole one. He was plenty mature. Really.
Probably.
For the most part.
He thought it probably had something more to do with the whole rock scene in general. They didn't have a problem with him listening to it, but apparently taking an active role in listening and hanging out with other fans was a big no-no. Or at least that seemed to be his mom's point of view. She'd been a huge metal head and rocker in her teenage years, and had spent many slow afternoons, late nights and early mornings at concerts, which... was the extent of his knowledge about it. She'd been rubbing gingerly at her ear piercing and wincing uncomfortably as she disclosed even that much about her past. But that was okay, it left more up to interpretation, and Zack got a real kick out of imagining his mom screaming at the top of her lungs as she swung his dad's plaid boxers over her head and poured beer over other screaming people's heads and accidentally elbowed people in the face. Zack snickered just thinking about thinking about it. He guessed picturing her fourteen-year-old son doing those sorts of things probably wasn't as fun for her, but that didn't make it any less stupid. Zack would never be that crazed or out of control, not to mention completely irresponsible. He did have some class, thank you very much.
Really.
Probably.
For the most part.
Anyway, his parents were being unreasonable, so Zack didn't feel too bad about going behind their backs about this. It was just a concert. With a beautiful girl.
Speaking of which, Zack shielded his eyes with a hand and squinted through the crowd, searching for a head of smooth black hair as he joined his goosian brethren in their wanderlust.
Two minutes of waddling later, he felt someone grab him by the arm and snatch him out of the crowd.
He snapped his head around in surprise to meet two sparkling crystal blue eyes in a pale, flawless face, and his mouth exploded into a grin. "Sophie!" Realizing how eager he'd just sounded, he inwardly cringed and forced his grin into something lighter, more teasing, and turned to follow her as she pulled him under the shade of a tree. "Thank goodness, I was looking everywhere for you."
"I saw," she replied in a low, amused tone, with her usual seductive gaze and shy smile. Zack felt his heart start to pound. "It was nice."
"Nice...?" Zack repeated slowly, with a half-raised eyebrow, already starting to feel a little lightheaded.
Sophie nodded, causing a few strands of watery black hair to fall into her eyes. She didn't bother to push them back as she fluttered her eyelashes exaggeratedly up at him, and he realized with a dim pang exactly what she was wearing on this fine afternoon. Instead of swimming in her usual argyle sweater, she was wearing the shirt he'd let her borrow a couple days ago. It was blue, and plaid, like everything he wore, and it was also... quite a statement, considering this was technically only their second date. Very... forward. He choked slightly, feeling his face grow hot as she continued to smile at him. "I liked having you look for me," she clarified, as her eyelashes fell long and dark and her cheeks colored.
It was late October. It was freezing outside. He should not be sweating this much. He wondered how she'd react if he took off his jacket. He was a little afraid she may take that as a sign of discomfort or... something else, though, and felt a little stupid that he was afraid. It was just that he'd never been with someone who liked him quite as much as Sophie. Most of the girls who dated him only did it for social purposes. Zack was a very popular guy, and, yeah, he'd admit it, was pretty easy to win over. All you had to do to get on his radar was be his age, be a girl, and not be a ginger, and that was it. He'd date you in a heartbeat. As a result of his being 'easy' and also immensely popular, somewhere along the line girls decided that if you hadn't dated Zack at least once, you were the very definition of loser. Like, beyond loser. The absolute pinnacle of 'wow, why are you even alive?'
And thus Zack's status as the resident ladies' man. He'd explained all this to Jaron once during one of their movie marathons and had gotten chips spat all over his shirt from how hard Jaron started laughing. Zack really didn't care. It just helped him in his noble quest of finding the One.
And the more Sophie looked at him, the more it seemed like he could stop looking, and he was simultaneously euphoric and nervous as hell.
Both of these feelings came out in a shaky, high-pitched chuckle, which was all he could get to come out of his mouth. Great.
Sophie seemed to like even that, though, and moved in closer. Zack grinned and hoped it didn't look too much like he was about to come apart at the seams. He wasn't supposed to do things like that. Besides, he had been the one to tell her he liked a girl who knew what she wanted and went after it. Who'd confessed he hadn't realized she cared that much about him, that it hadn't even occurred to him that his moving on as quickly as he had would even matter to her. She was just making sure there wouldn't be anymore misconceptions. There wasn't anything wrong with that. Wasn't anything wrong with that, his brain felt the need to emphasize.
"Come on," she said suddenly, pushing him urgently backwards with her hands on his chest. He could do nothing but let her, although he did wonder where she was taking him.
He had a fleeting thought that she could be leading him right off the edge of a cliff and he probably wouldn't mind.
He watched as she stopped a few feet away from the tree and reached over nonchalantly to—open a door, and then he was being shoved very quickly – into a green porta potty.
"Whoa," he yelped, his eyes going wide as he only just stopped himself from falling by slamming his hands against the walls, his knees trying to buckle. "Uh—"
His flustered protest was cut off by Sophie pulling the door shut and pouncing on him. Hands snatched him by his collar and lips smushed against his, inexperienced but so eager, so passionate and desperate and reverent—
His breath all left him in a rush and his body seized up, falling back against the thankfully closed toilet. He should find this disgusting. He couldn't even remember where they were. Her arms were like hot brands around his neck and back, grasping and pulling and so, so sweet and wanting—wanting him. His eyelids slid down, something aching and damaged inside of him growing soft and pliant, along with the rest of him.
She pulled back after some time, and he realized she'd somehow managed to situate herself in his lap. That was okay. Wonderful, even. She ran her hands through his hair and looked at him like he was the answer to all life's problems, her eyes wide and blue and frantically darting over his face.
"You don't date anyone else," she whispered furiously, fingers digging into his scalp and the middle of his shoulder blades, under his jacket. He stared dumbly up at her. "Okay? You're mine from now on. No one else." Her breaths came out wild and harsh. "I need you."
Zack didn't think it was possible to melt anymore without slipping through the cracks of the plastic room and soaking into the ground, but he managed it. "Okay," he heard himself murmur.
Sophie's eyes still darted, clear and blue as the sky on the sunniest of days. "Really?" she asked weakly.
Zack nodded. Or he thought he did anyway. "Yeah," his voice cracked and he swallowed. "Yeah. Whatever you want." His breathing accelerated to match the frantic beating of his heart, and he tried desperately to look devilish as he added, "I don't sneak out for just anybody, ya know."
Sophie ran her eyes down him, licking her lips, and the devilish look was gone but he didn't blame himself. "No, maybe not," she whispered flirtily, with an edge of barely contained excitement as she slid her hands over to play with the collar of his plaid shirt, and Zack wondered through the haze what had happened to his jacket, "but you do sneak out pretty often, huh? Creeping around under your parents' noses in broad daylight, in the late, late afternoon just as the sun is setting, in the dark of night—completely free, completely forbidden; dangerous..." She flipped up his collar and caressed it, then used it to jerk him nose-to-nose with her as she breathed delightedly against his lips, "You're a bad boy."
"You taste like cheetos," he mumbled dreamily.
Sophie pulled back and bit her lip, lowering her eyelashes. "I wish I could be like you. There's so many things I've wanted to do..." she trailed off miserably.
Zack was aware at the back of his mind that she was saying things, important things, things that deserved attention—but she was in his lap and she was so pretty and blue and she liked him so much—He took a breath, tried to focus. Managed to laugh, and the sound was enough of a shock to his ears that his mind thankfully cleared enough for him to consider what she was saying. "Ah," he exhaled, aware that his face was soft and amused and lovesick and not caring one bit, "why would someone like you want to be like me? Look at you."
Sophie's eyes were a little down, focused on his nose, and when she blinked there was something heavy about it. In fact, it looked a lot like his words had had the completely opposite effect than he'd intended. Zack grew concerned, and even moreso when her eyes flicked even lower. "You're fearless," she murmured, something so powerless in the words that his heartbeat faltered. "You don't care what people think, or how they see you. You don't let anyone restrict you, not even yourself. You're so comfortable and confident, and it's... It's never been like that for me." Her hands began fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. She went to button it absentmindedly, just by muscle memory, but then seemed to realize that wasn't actually something she wanted and stilled. Her hands dropped. Her black hair fell in thin strands in front of her face as she looked down at them.
Zack didn't understand, and pushed himself into a more upright position. He rested his hands on her arms then and tried to catch her eye. "What do you have to be uncomfortable about? You're beautiful. Kind and funny and—" He chuckled, briefly rolling his eyes. "You pushed Zachary Shortman into a porta potty to make out with him. That's pretty fearless."
Sophie's eyes peeked out between her hair, and her grin was sweet and laughing. "I did that because I'm afraid," she replied, and the words were sad but her tone happy as she pushed him back against the wall, locking her arms around his neck so she could sag down against his chest. It was awkward and Zack's back protested, but that was fine. He was fine. He wrapped his arms around her. "You're the best thing to ever happen to me." She sighed contently, nuzzling her head into his neck to find that warm, spicy scent. "You don't know what it's been like. I was never allowed to go out without a chaperone. My only friends were my parents' friends. I didn't get to go to school with other kids or talk to anyone I didn't know. I couldn't do anything." Her arms tightened. "I had to beg Dad to even let me come here."
Zack squeezed one arm around her and lifted the other to stroke her hair down her back. "Hey," he said quietly, "I get it. My parents can get pretty overprotective, too. I mean," he hastened to add, scoffing out a weak chuckle, "not nearly so bad as what you dealt with, but I can probably understand better than most people. It's..." He hesitated for just a moment, before beginning again, softer, "Parents can get crazy. But don't feel so bad about it. I know it's hard, but it just means they love you. Sometimes... you just need to put your foot down and remind them you know what's best for you, too... But," he gave her a soft rousing pat, "you know, things are different now." He laughed outright then and put his hands on her arms to gently nudge her up so he could look her in the eye with a grin. "I mean, look at where you are now. A freshman in HS 117, at a rock concert with your boyfriend on a plastic toilet. It doesn't get anymore free than this."
Sophie dissolved into watery laughter, and flicked her eyes up. They were a little glassy. She shook her head and shifted her eyes back down to look at him teasingly. "Bad boy has a sensitive side," she whispered hotly, giddy as she bumped her nose against his and maneuvered her hands to grip at his shoulders. "Who would have thought?"
"I'm full of surprises," he said with a smirk.
Sophie laughed again, breathily, and leaned down to match her lips above his. "I like that," she murmured, and when she kissed him this time, it was softer, more tender, like he was something precious for her to savor. His breath stuttered and caught in his throat.
The concert started outside to a screaming, enthusiastic crowd.
Zack didn't care.
Phil fell back into the bench with a throaty sigh of relief. "I hate the mall," he wrathfully declared to the general area. A few teenage girls holding several bags exploded into scoffs and sashayed away, their skirts swinging against their freshly waxed legs. He made faces at their backs.
Sara came over to sit beside him, first perching herself on the front then slowly easing herself back. Her hands folded over her lap as she looked forward at nothing. "I love the mall," she remarked.
Phil sent her a huffy expression. "Good for you," he yelled into her ear. Other than her eyes flickering, she gave no reaction. He groaned and sunk down low, folding his arms snug over his chest.
"It's nice," she commented, eyes skimming up over the vibrant signs and high windowed ceilings. Lush potted trees sat on both sides of the bench, and her eyes ran down the one closest to her. She breathed deep. "It smells good, and it's very open, and..."
"And..." Phil cheerfully mocked, as if he were eager to hear her go on.
"And it has really good food, and a huge arcade," she finished placidly. Phil groaned again, with greater animation.
"It's also the most boring place on the planet!" He kicked a leg into the air, trying to injure the mall's very essence. When that proved unsatisfying, he leaned over and punched the side of the bench. Sara continued to look around, not paying him any attention, and he growled. "What's wrong with you?" he complained to the side of her head. "We've been stuck walking around for half an hour and you're not dying! Doesn't anything upset you?"
A wrinkle appeared between Sara's eyebrows. She glanced at him weirdly. "Lots of things," she said, as if it should be obvious.
Phil stared at her through wide eyes, breathing in heavy, irritated pants. Of course, he knew things upset her, but it had been an eternity of wandering and doing nothing and all she did was look totally at peace about everything and he was so sick—"My feet hurt," he huffed. "I hate the mall."
Sara gave a faint snuff. "It wouldn't be so bad if we had money to spend," she said lightly, as if they were talking about the weather. "I'm almost out since lunch."
"Tff," Phil's eyes did a full roll along the edge of his upper eyelids, "money's not the problem, I just don't want to buy anything. Everything stinks here."
"There are over a hundred stores in this place. I'm sure we can find one that's of interest to you."
Phil shifted his eyes over to focus on the pot at eye level with him through the bench's arm. It was brown and roughly textured, the only design a thin band lining around the top of it. He glared heatedly at that line. "Everything stinks here," he repeated bitterly. He sensed Sara's mouth opening again and turned his face swiftly up to shout, "And I wish you would just admit it stinks and shut up!"
She blinked at him. Then, in a single fluid motion, she stood and walked away. Phil gaped after her in disbelief, watching as she just kept walking and walking, eventually turning away and disappearing down a corner. His heart rate spiked and he sat up in a flash, his fingers curling between the bench boards and his mouth falling open in disbelief. His aunt said they had to stick together and Sara just up and pranced away—
He should be getting up and chasing after her. He should be screaming for her to come back. He should be—be going to find someone to direct him to his aunt's location so he could tell her all about how his buddy abandoned him in the middle of a hormonal teenager-infested cesspool.
But all he wanted to do was hug himself and stare at the floor, so that's exactly what he did.
It felt like a month elapsed, but it was really only a few minutes later that a finger tapped him on the shoulder and a sweet, warm smell drifted to his nose. He started, eyes snapping up to see Sara standing there with two paper-wrapped cinnamon buns. She smiled and held one out to him.
He stared at her. Not knowing what to say, he took the proffered item and turned his eyes down to stare at it instead. Sara sat down beside him and looked at her own, her smile fading and eyes brightening in tandem.
First slow, then gradually gaining strength, Phil shook his head and looked back at her. "You're a nut."
"When I was a little kid, my dad would always give me cinnamon sticks when I was upset. It never failed to calm me down," she said by way of explanation, picking at the paper around her bun. "It's not a very good replacement," she admitted, glancing briefly at him, "but cinnamon is cinnamon."
Phil blinked inquisitively. "You're trying to make me shut up," he dryly concluded.
"I'm trying to make you feel better," Sara sighed, taking a small bite. He watched with a mixture of surprise and relief as she chewed and swallowed before speaking again. "Hasn't anyone ever just done something nice for you?"
Phil blinked again. "Not if we weren't related. Or connected through my dad somehow. So…" his eyes drifted off, his fingers drumming once on the pastry, "lots of people do nice things for me." His face sank into darkness.
Sara frowned. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Oh, it's not," he hastened to assure, imitating her light tone. "People love my dad, so they love me, too. Or at least most do." He angled his head at the cinnamon bun and picked at the visible bits of sugar. "Because he's a really great guy and he does everything right. And even when he does do something wrong, everyone's always falling over themselves to forgive him. What could be bad about that?"
Sara chewed slowly, settling more comfortably back into the bench. "You sound like you're jealous," she noted.
Phil screwed up his face and threw her a look. "I'm not jealous. Just..." he trailed off, blinking his eyes up, then back down. "Well," he huffed out a flat chuckle and glared at the tree, "what do you care?"
It was quiet for a time, while Phil tore long strips of paper off of his bun and let them flutter to the floor. Sara watched a particularly long piece float heavily down, then blinked her eyes forward, wide, and stated, "I wasn't supposed to exist."
Phil snorted and looked at her again. "What?"
"When my mom was a teenager," she went on quietly, adjusting her fingers against the hot pastry, "a doctor told her she couldn't ever have kids. At the time, she was really upset, but life went on and she grew to accept it. 'Cause, you know, what else could she do?" She lifted her shoulders, and paused a beat. Her eyes wandered off. "But then she left for college…"
A minute passed, where Sara stared at nothing and Phil watched her expectantly. When she made no move to continue, Phil huffed impatiently and said, "Okay? Then what?"
Sara took a large bite of her cinnamon bun and chewed, her cheeks puffing unattractively. A trail of crumbs stuck to the edge of her mouth, and she wiped them away with the napkin wedged between her hand and the paper. Phil's eyes widened upon seeing that she had napkins, and he reached over to nab one. Sara caught the motion and wasted no time in pulling out a clean white napkin and handing it over. He wiped his fingers of the sugary glaze and raised a meaningful eyebrow. Sara looked him in the eye and asked, "Wha' bo yew car'?"
Phil scoffed out a noise of disgust and snapped his head away, eyes squeezing shut. "You're doing that just to annoy me," he accused, annoyed.
"Fo?"
"So cut it out!"
Sara chewed loudly. "A'm doin' i'," she said a little more coherently, having swallowed some, "b'cuv yur fill makim affump—" She swallowed completely and sighed, speaking in her typical soft, composed voice, "You're still making assumptions."
He glared at her for that. "Educated guess," he declared indignantly, straightening. "You've made it pretty clear you want nothing to do with me."
"I've made it pretty clear I don't want to be your girlfriend," she said in a perfect monotone, her face flat. "And I didn't like being harassed. But I never said I didn't like you."
"You told me to leave you alone," Phil exclaimed in a high, incredulous voice, and she defended with, "I was really stressed," almost before he finished.
Phil balled the napkin up in his fist and rose up on the bench. "You were only ever nice to me because you wanted me to buy your stupid candy," he shouted, throwing the cinnamon bun down on the seat between them.
"I was nice to you because you looked like you needed it," she threw back, her eyes narrowing slightly as he put his feet up on the bench and stood over her. She looked up at him with a frown. "What are you doing?"
Phil growled at the calm, patronizing voice and asked with his own low and dangerous, eyes dark and daring, "Are you seriously trying to say you like me?"
Sara studied him, her eyes guarded. "Sure..." she slowly murmured. "Why not?"
With a sharp noise of disgust, Phil pounced. He crashed into her, sending them both back into the seat, and she gasped at the sudden invasion as he pushed and pushed, trying to throw her off the bench while his legs scrambled against her own struggling ones. Sara was quick to hold her pastry out of the way of the assault, and used her free hand to hold him at bay best she could while she groaned, like this was a mere inconvenience, "What are you doing?"
"You're lying," he yelled, managing to edge her upper torso off so her hair was hanging down, brushing against the floor. Sara grunted and grabbed the bench's arm, managing to just hook her foot on the other arm at the opposite end. Phil kept pushing. "No one likes me! No one ever likes me! Don't lie to me, you big stupid—"
Sara popped her cinnamon bun in his mouth. He choked, the sweet cinnamon and warm glaze an unexpected burst on his tongue. He rushed to shove himself back and dropped against the other side of the bench, spluttering and coughing as he snatched it out. Sara pulled herself back up, first on her back before grabbing onto the bench boards and pushing up. She scooted back against the bench arm as she eyed him, knees bent close, shoulders and eyes hard as she panted. He trembled as he chewed, angling his face down, his hair acting as an unruly shield. Sara gave a final long exhale and relaxed, seeing that he was done. "You make it really hard," she said.
Phil didn't reply.
She watched him for a while, listening to the light smacking sounds of him eating. She shifted her legs closer. "This curse has really been messing with you... hasn't it?" His hand twitched over the bun. Her eyes widened slightly, and she tilted her head with a sudden understanding. "You never really wanted me to like you, did you? And you... you never wanted to like me..." Her eyes shifted and hands hovered restlessly, feeling suddenly out of her depth. "Not really..." she mumbled uncertainly.
Phil placed his free hand down against the bench and edged himself farther away.
Sara took in a deep breath and turned her eyes up, seeking wisdom in the air, golden with the fading sun. A single hair soared through the air. She tracked it for a few seconds, then sighed silently and turned her eyes back down to look at him. Seeing the way he was holding his head, her frown deepened into concern. "Are you okay?"
He jerked his head up, scowling with a look of extreme discomfort. His face was a bright, shameful red, and Sara marveled at it for a couple seconds before realizing, "You're embarrassed."
"You—" Phil started to growl, frustrated, but then groaned and turned his head away, partially out of sight. He swallowed and stood, wanting to leave and trying to for a few steps, but then remembered that he couldn't and groaned again, standing erect a few feet away, his back to her and the cinnamon bun tight at his side.
Sara frowned at his back. "I care," she said softly.
Phil threw his head back again and groaned. Then his head fell in defeat, a hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, and his head tilted to look down the way they'd come. Without saying a word, he began marching with determined speed in that direction.
He heard somewhere over the screaming in his ears that Sara was asking him where he was going, but he just held up his free hand for her to stay put without turning around and continued stiffly on.
A few minutes later, he came back, avoiding her eyes, and sat the pot down beside her. He cleared his throat and gestured to it, while Sara stared. "There," he grumbled.
She shifted her eyes unblinking to the petunias, bright and healthy in a small dark orange pot. For a moment, her eyes widened, and she looked almost shocked, but then something flashed and they hardened the instant she looked at him. "These—" she started warily, but Phil huffed and cut her off.
"Are an apology," he said uncomfortably, forcing himself to look in her eyes as he said it, like his dad always insisted he do. It was hard, and he was sure his face was turning pink, but he felt too guilty not to. "So, you know, just accept them and... stop talking." Finished, his eyes snapped almost involuntarily to the floor.
The hard look was gone. Sara blinked a couple times in rapid succession, clearly surprised, then turned her eyes back down to examine the flowers with new eyes. They were white with bright yellow centers that took up almost the entirety of the blooms, and smelled richly of earth. She reached out to stroke one of the petals. Hardly knowing she did, she said, "They're yellow."
Phil brought the hand up still holding the bun and wrapped his other hand around it, hanging loose in front of himself. "I know this'll surprise you, but I'm not completely unobservant," he muttered, only a little sarcastic.
The whisper of a smile crossed her face, and when she looked at him again, it was unusually soft. He glanced at her only once when he felt her eyes on him again, and was startled at the sight of it. As a general rule, her face was always soft, had been for the entire duration of their acquaintance—with pudgy faces, it kind of came with the territory, he guessed. But seeing how she was looking at him now made him realize just how stiff she'd been around him lately. She'd been uncomfortable and angry and hiding it behind a mask of pleasant neutrality. He'd known she was mad, that she was hiding things, but seeing it confirmed again had his eyes snapping back down. He heard rather than saw her pull the pot closer to her on the bench. "Thank you," she said, reaching around the plant to pat the empty seat. Phil walked the two steps it took to reach the spot and sat. Sara eyed him. "But... what are you apologizing for?" she asked then, and Phil couldn't hold back the snort at the way she said that.
"Criminy, what are you, my mom?" he exclaimed, flicking his eyes to her agitatedly. "I'm not good with apologies, okay? You know what I'm apologizing for. Don't make me say it—You don't want me to say it. Trust me, this can get ugly real fast."
Sara looked slightly amused. "For… stalking me?" she guessed, like he hadn't just begged her to let the subject go. Phil let out a long exasperated exhale, eyes flying high and shoulders slumping forward. Sara grinned ever so slightly. "For yelling at me, maybe? Or for pinning me down. Acting like I owed you something—Trying to push me off the bench." She said this last bit as if it were some grand moment of insight for her, and Phil really wished she'd stop.
So naturally she went on. At least the light joking tone that had been underlining her words was gone, but the seriousness that replaced it wasn't especially comforting. "You know," she said quietly, leaning forward to try and catch his eye, "I understand that you were under a lot of pressure with the curse, but that doesn't change that what you did really wasn't okay. How would you like it if someone followed you around, was constantly asking after you, demanding attention and then had the nerve to force you down and declare that they love you, while never once considering how you might feel about any of it?"
Phil slammed his eyes shut, the color draining from his face so quickly he felt lightheaded. Taking in a deep breath, he let it out in a small groan while running a knuckle over his eye. "Geez, it's like I apologized and you're punishing me for it."
"I just want you to understand what you did wrong," she said consolingly.
"Why? So I can feel even worse than before?"
She reached over to place a reassuring hand on his knee. "So you won't do it again." Her voice was just as gentle as her touch.
Phil stared at that hand. At first his gaze was weary, but it grew more pointed the longer it remained. She must have noticed, because she gave his knee a parting pat and pulled it away. For some reason, that just made him feel even more horrible than before. "You really don't have to worry about that," he sighed gloomily. "I've given up hope on ever beating the curse."
Sara's surprise was a palpable force. Phil watched her leg as it shifted. "Really?" After a beat, she added, "Why?"
"Because," he stated heavily, "the only girl who doesn't hate me doesn't want to be my girlfriend."
The silence that stretched between them was stifling. Phil wrapped the paper around the bun just for something to do.
Some time later, Sara took in an audible breath and wet her lips once before piping up, in the most cautious tone he had ever heard from anyone, "I know this seems bad now, but…" He clenched his eyes shut. "I'm sure—"
"'I'm sure since curses aren't real that you'll eventually get over your childish delusion and move past this, Phil,' " Phil suddenly burst in a hoarse, mocking tone, stuffing the bun suddenly into his coat pocket with a sarcastic grin. That grin went up in smoke when he slammed his hands down against the bench and pushed himself off. Sara's eyes went huge at the suddenness of it, as he was now heaving in front of her with a dark scowl and hands in bruising fists at his sides. "'There's no such thing as aliens, let alone alien owls, Phil,' " he yelled in that same tone. "'No, the ghost isn't gonna come out and murder us in our sleep, quit worrying so much, Phil!' 'We just want to have a little fun, Phil! It's just a joke, Phil!' 'You're so uptight, why don't you ever stop and have fun once in a while, Phil? I get so tired of having to listen to you yammer, Phil!' 'You're just a stupid little kid who doesn't ever know what he's talking about, Phil! Quit overreacting, Phil!' " His shoulders shook with the force of his outrage. "You think this is some kind of joke?" he hissed, almost too fast to understand. "Do you think I like being this way? Do you think I'm having fun with the idea that I might end up shackled to my worst enemy? That I can't see exactly what you're doing?
"I never believe anything without a good reason! My grandpa's wife was an evil, psychopathic jerk as a kid who did nothing but get him in trouble for years! My own mom was a huge bully who threw spitballs at my dad and glued feathers to his butt and called him names every day and it's been like that for generations! Mercy has been torturing me as far back as I can remember, it's no different than every other Shortman in my family line, and I swear that owl was looking at me funny the whole night!" He took a weighted step towards her and Sara stiffened in response, right before Phil grabbed her by the front of her jacket and jerked her down, his face twisted in disgust. "This isn't something I've just dreamed up out of the blue so don't you dare use that soft, patronizing, indulgent tone with me like I'm an idiot, because I'm not—" his voice cracked.
Sara sat still as a statue in front of him, her jaw slack. He stared first at her eyes, wide as saucers and strangely dark under her bangs, before darting his gaze down to stare at his hands. The fabric of her coat bunched thick and fuzzy in his fingers, but he could hardly feel it… and like a wave crashing over his head he realized with a disorienting rush that his breathing was coming harsh and ruthless and his arms were shaking and he had to get away he had to run as fast as he could but all he could think was No no no not again—
"Hey, hey, hey, hey," Sara hastened soothingly out, her hands coming up to wrap around his shaking ones, "it's okay, everything's going to be all right. Just look me in the eye and—"
Phil jerked out of her hold like she was on fire and stumbled back in fear. Her eyes widened again, and he choked, slapping his hands over his face and trying to stop trembling long enough to get farther away.
Sara watched wordlessly as he struggled before looking around. The coast appeared clear at first, but then her eyes caught sight of a man standing several yardsticks away, frozen and staring beside another potted tree with a bag of roasted peanuts in his hand. Sara breathed in sharply and stood, grabbing her plant, and walked over to Phil. She whispered to him, "Let's go find a quiet store and talk about this."
She took the edge of his sleeve and gave it a gentle tug in her direction. She stepped forward and waited.
It took him a minute, but he followed.
"Happy Halloween!" a mechanical voice cackled as they entered the novelty shop. Phil jolted away, his eyes whipping over to meet two glowing red ones in the face of a hideous witch decked in stereotypical black garb. Her sharp, grinning teeth shined a plastic white as she rotated back around and shut off. He shuddered as he walked on, eyes never leaving the witch's black eyes as Sara strode ahead of him. Her hand squeezed his wrist reassuringly as she looked around.
"This seems safe," she said warily, eyes still moving around. Just to make sure, she led him behind a rack of pumpkin costumes.
Phil's breath puffed against his hand as he looked up at her. His eyes were distrustful, but the manic terror was thankfully long gone. Sara detected the question in his posture and gave him an awkward smile.
"Sorry I upset you," she offered. It was as good an opener as any.
Phil shut his eyes and turned his head down.
Sara frowned and looked away as well. Her arm swung away from his, and then up to grab the other side of her pot, shifting it from her side to the front of her stomach. "Seems all I ever do is upset people," she muttered, her back bending a little backwards. She sighed silently and shook her head, looking back down at him. "I don't think you're an idiot. I never did. That's why I was so surprised when you—" She stopped. "Sorry. I'm sorry. That's all. Is it better in here?"
Phil turned away and sighed, finally starting to feel himself again. "Smells like plastic and make up."
"I'd like to help you with your curse," she said abruptly.
Phil stilled. Unsure if he'd heard right, he turned his head to look at her. His hair fell into his eyes. "You want to be my girlfriend now?" he rasped with dull skepticism. He didn't sound very enthusiastic.
Air released from her nose, and all energy inside of her seemed to drain as she looked at him. "No," she said simply. "Even if I did, I'm too old for you. What I'm saying is I'd like to help you find someone who is willing to be your girlfriend."
Phil's blank gaze shifted. "No one's willing."
"What if you could make them? If you could…" She transferred her weight to her other foot, then again. She seemed antsy for a couple seconds, before she turned fully towards him. "You're a very angry person," she said simply. "But if you wanted, I think I could help you manage that anger. If you were a little nicer to people, I bet you could find the right girl easily."
Phil paused. Then looked back at her. His expression didn't change. "Why would you ever want to help me?"
"Maybe I'm tired of being alone," she said, and his eyes did a slow roll. Her mouth twitched. She adjusted the flower in her arms. "I want to say I just want to help you but I have a feeling you won't accept that."
"No, I'd accept it," he denied, "if it was genuine."
"It is."
Phil made a noise of weak frustration and wriggled his arms. "I don't appreciate you making fun of this," he warned tiredly. "I know you think I'm crazy, but even if the curse ends up being wrong, this is very real to me right now so—"
"I don't think you're crazy," she said firmly, steel in her voice and eyes that had him blinking. "Look, this is only going to work if you stop assuming things—"
"Why are you ignoring the fact I just screamed at you and went nuts?" he cried hoarsely, exasperated.
"Because I don't know what to say," she quickly replied. "I only know that this keeps coming up. This curse, those people, you—I can't go on like this. If I help you, maybe this can finally end." His face dropped into grim understanding, prompting her to continue. With a brief moment of collection, she added, "I want peace, yes, but I also really do want to help you. I… used to think I'd like to be your friend. You're—different from other people, and I like different. But…" She took a moment to inhale. Something dimmed in her eyes. "When I said before that you were nothing, I meant that in my head you're like… this blank space. I don't know what to think of you, so I try not to think anything." She glanced away involuntarily, then forced herself to look back. "But now, I think I'd like to try…" The words sounded strained, like it was a struggle for her to say them. To combat her tone, she smiled.
Phil stared at her. His brain reeled at this turn of events.
The truth was, he didn't know why he was being such a brat about all this. This was the deal that could save his life, but something still thrashed and screamed inside of him to shout No in her face and march away as fast as he could without looking back. He didn't know why he exploded in her face before, or felt so irritable and exhausted at the same time. Of course, he was irritable by nature, but something about today was different. Maybe it was the fact he'd spent over sixty hours watching television to try to drown out the cruel reality of a life spent beside Mercy Laporte, or that he'd gotten thrown fully-clothed into a pool, or maybe that he'd had to watch her talk with her mouth full several times now. He really didn't know, but he did know his only options right now were either to agree… or sign his own death certificate.
And so, he choked out a simple, stiff, "Fine," and smiled like he did during improv.
And they stood there, smiling fakely at each other for another minute, before Sara said, "Really?"
"Yes."
Sara blinked. "Okay."
"Okay," he echoed, and shoved his hands with forced casualty in his pockets. "Sorry I grabbed you again and shouted in your face."
Sara worked her mouth. "…None taken?"
Phil sighed and threw his eyes up. "Guess I'll have to join drama again."
"Or," Sara drew out, "I could just come to your house."
His mom's face flashed in his mind. "No," he said forcefully. "I'll join drama."
Sara stared at him. "But you hate drama."
His whole family's faces flashed this time, starting with Josh's and culminating in his mom's again, and he cringed. "Yeah…" he admitted wistfully, running a rough hand over his neck. His head nodded decisively. "I'll join drama. I need to get out of the house anyway."
Sara blinked at him, then shifted her eyes left and right before looking at him again through tilted eyes. She took a step back. "Okay…"
"Okay." He followed her as she moved further back. It occurred to him they were now going to be stuck with each other for a while and his eyes narrowed in tandem with his mouth curving up. He pulled the paper-wrapped cinnamon bun from his pocket like a magic trick. "I can get a job as a stage hand. Auditions and callbacks are over, right?"
Sara took another cautious step back and glanced away, her head tilting up like she was looking for something. "Uh-huh."
Phil bobbed his head once and said no more on the topic. He peeled the paper back from the cinnamon bun. "So…" he said casually, stepping forward as he took a large bite out of a side she hadn't eaten off of. He rocked on his heels and spoke over his chewing, "Wha' bo we bo mow?"
Sara's eyes snapped to him.
He grinned, wide and open-mouthed.
Her eyes darted to his mouth then several other directions. "Uh—" She coughed, nearly laughing, before biting her lip hard. She moved off to the side, partially behind the costume rack. "Yeah—" she coughed again, then disappeared around the corner with her plant swinging in her arms. Phil clicked his mouth shut and raised an eyebrow after her. Her voice came muffled the next second, "Actually, I won't have a lot of time during drama. Romeo and Juliet is a big production—"
Phil poked his head around the corner, catching her biting her fist. Her eyes snapped to his and the hand fell casually to the side. Her eyes met his eyes tranquilly, as if it was perfectly normal to hide behind a bunch of pumpkin costumes and bite yourself. "Why won't you have a lot of time?" he asked, ignoring the fact she was a weirdo. "You're just gonna be pulling ropes or something, right? Unless…" He blinked slowly. His face shut down. "No."
Sara smiled faintly. "I'm an understudy."
"For which character?" he demanded.
She turned and walked away. He followed at her heels. "Juliet," she admitted speedily, "but—"
"The leading role?" he cried. "But—You—" He shook his head furiously and burst, "You actually did something and I missed it?"
Sara looked around some more. "There's gotta be a clock," she mumbled.
Phil skidded around so he was in front of her, and tapped his foot with his arms crossed sternly over his chest. "Sara."
She blinked, and slowly turned her head down to look at him. "Yes?" she asked nicely.
Oh, he was going to gut her before the month was out. His eyebrows dug deep into his eyes. "Sara."
"Yes?"
"Sara…" he growled lowly.
Sara blinked and walked away again. "You might want to get that oiled."
Okay, correction. He was going to gut her right now, with nothing but his bare hands and a pastry. He stormed after her, raising his hands up to do just that.
Sara sighed at the sound of his angry footsteps and stopped to look at him again. He snapped his arms back to his sides and looked at her innocently. Her face was resigned. "It was a private audition," she quietly disclosed, "and I asked for an understudy role. I'm the sixth down the line. I… had to participate in at least one significant way, otherwise my mom would be upset. I just told you so you'd know I have a lot of lines to practice before opening night, so I won't have a lot of time to help you there."
Phil quirked his mouth to one side and narrowed his eyes in confusion. "But the likelihood you'll have to go on—"
"Is slim. I know." She gave up searching and turned her body to him. "Do you have the time?"
Phil blinked. It occurred to him what she was after and he stuck the bun in his mouth so he could pull his watch out of his pocket and snap it open. The chain dangled from the clasp at his belt buckle, and Sara's eyes ran down it.
"You have a pocket watch," she said.
"It's ten from six," he stated once he had the bun out, snapping the watch shut with one hand and shoving it along with its chain back into his pocket.
"And a pager," she went on, as if he hadn't spoken. She seemed a little dazed.
He squinted at her. "Do you have to go? Because since we're here, I was kind of hoping—"
"Ten from six," Sara suddenly exclaimed, and the sudden animation nearly toppled him over in shock. She hugged her plant close and went skittering towards the exit. "We'll figure something out later, I have to go now," she called.
Phil blinked dumbly then went racing after her. "Whoa, wait!" he yelled, and passed right by the witch without thinking. The witch suddenly burst to life and cackled, eyes flashing and jerking back and forth. He screeched, nearly tripping in his haste to get away, but he snatched his wits back as quick as he could and yelled, "You can't leave me here alone, you have to walk me back to the fountain!"
Sara stopped at that and looked back at him oddly. Shifting the pot to one arm, she brought the full length of her arm out to point down the way.
He blinked and turned to look. The fountain sat tall and beautiful, gushing sparkling water only a few yards away. He turned his head back to frown at her, putting a pained hand to his chest. "I could die," he choked emotionally.
Sara smiled a little and continued on. "Goodbye, Phil."
Phil dropped the act and waved her off. "Yeah, smell you later, you walking fire hazard."
Sara left, and Phil lifted the half-eaten cinnamon bun up to examine. He twisted it a couple ways, then took a small bite and tilted his head up to the lights. "I have no idea how to feel," he mused.
Shaking his head, he journeyed the short ways to the water fountain.
Dolly stepped out from behind a vampire manikin and watched him walk away. Her glasses fogged and her shoulders rose and fell heavily with the force of her wheezing. The witch burst into cackles and started spinning from the movement, and Dolly snapped her eyes to it, glowing green with rage.
She kicked it over, and even while it crashed, kept kicking it. She kicked it until it was all the way against the display window and growled as it cackled and thrashed against the floor. A few teens walked by and gawked once before running away, but she didn't see them and she didn't stop and she didn't care.
Finally, her asthma got too bad for her to continue. She gave one final weak kick and scrabbled for the inhaler in her shirt as she stumbled off in Sara's direction.
The witch's eyes glowed red long after the cackling stopped.
A/N: Goddamnit, Dolly. Cool your ranch. Or at least kick the witch's face in. Work with me here.
Oh my God, guys. This is gonna be some Lilo and Stitch type shiz. Like, picture Sara with a crude drawing of Phil colored in bright red, and she's like, "This is your badness meter. It's abnormally high for someone your size." BWAHAHAH AHHAHAH HA
You know what's great? Sara and Phil's interactions were not supposed to go on for this long. Rather, the chapter wasn't supposed to be almost nothing but their interactions. You might ask why that is, and I might reply FML, and then we might awkwardly stare at each other before walking away. And we might both be worse off for that one encounter. That one encounter might haunt us for the rest of our days. We might never be the same people again.
No, but the plan was: Get it so they're both in a good enough position with each other that Sara can make her offer to help him with the curse. But she really didn't want to and Phil kept blowing up and so here we are. There was supposed to be a few scenes with Zack and Pam interviewing Olga and Olga and Phil chatting it up like gangstaz, but if I added those in, this would have far exceeded 40,000 words… and I'm okay with that, but I didn't want you guys to die. XD Hell, I didn't want to die. These chapters are monsters to revise. Any longer and I may have gotten a pitch fork and angrily waved it at myself.
In case you guys are wondering, Sara's fully fleshed out and has a complete backstory. She's not in this story just to be Phil's shmoop. I have big plans for her… I'm srsly struggling with how much of her I should reveal every time I write. This just… Haha. There's just no words for the struggle. xD
HOW COOL IS IT THAT THIS IS LINING UP WITH HALLOWEEN THO? IMMA TRY, IMMA TRRRRYYY TO GET THE HALLOWEEN BIT UP IN TIME but will ultimately fail so whatever let's get to questions *combs emo hair*
Q – Will their be a scene in a story with a uncomfortable Romantic setting with Zack and Pam that will confuse their relationship?
A – I really don't know. xD
Q – Ever thought of creating your own "Hey Arnold!: The Jungle Movie" as prequel to "Life with the Shortmans"?
A – Aw, you'll see TJM when it gets made by Craig, either as a movie or a graphic novel. I've been dancing around TJM this entire fic, just trying to make sure there's a space for whatever might occur in the film. Craig's still holding out hope, so I'm still holding out hope. Simple as that.
Q – Does it seem like Zack takes after Phil Senior Shortmen and could take over the Boarding House, while writing Famous Poems/writings? Zack does not seem to have plan. Sure, he can write REALLY well, but he looks like a party guy. I can just read Zack taking over the Boarding House and sort a being very manipulative on making sure the Boards don't cause trouble.Plus, Zack could write and publish Poems in his spare time or go to College, while learning to Run the Boarding house.
A – Zack doesn't have a plan, that's true. I… There's a lot here I can't respond to. But I will say Zack won't ever be publishing his poetry or writing for a living. Poetry has only ever been a light hobby for him. He just does it without thinking. Even if August never happened, he'd never be interested in pursuing it as a career. It'd feel too much like getting paid to collect buttons or do origami, lol. You just don't do it.
Q – Who is this mysterious crush that Josh "Ham" Shortman has on and why does he not go and confess to her, if Josh "Ham" Shortman sort a the perfect girl to MOST girls? Is she really Mature Women in College, does not think much of Josh in Highschool or is she the nobody in school people would think THE Josh "Ham" Shortman would have a crush on?
A – I can't tell you any of this… XD Spoilers, dude!
Q – If Helga pregnant or going to be pregnant, will it be ANOTHER girl, so Amanda could be a big sister? I hope Helga has a little girl that takes after her somewhat, BUT also has Arnold personality. Like relax/cool like her father, yet fiery personality of her mother.It would be interesting to read the YOUNGEST/Baby of the Shortman family would react to Amanda and if their relationship would be like Olga/Helga or actually have a GOOD relationship when it comes to sisters.Maybe she would cry when Amanda around or stop crying when Amanda came around.
A – Ah… Helga… isn't going to be pregnant… ever again. I don't know where you got that impression? Helga originally didn't want to have four kids… Originally Helga didn't want to have kids at all.
Okay, actually glad this came up. You're not the first to suggest this, and it's been on my mind for waaay too long. I apologize in advance for the essay. I just really have to get this out of my head.
To be fair, I've always kinda imagined Helga's reasoning for not really wanting kids was a) the thought of shoving a watermelon out of her v-jay was a big N-O, b) she hated the idea of sharing Arnold, and c) she was afraid she'd be a horrible parent since… HA, do I have to say it? So, yeah, her reasons weren't really legit. I kinda imagine her being like me in that regard, 'cause I can't stand the idea of having children for pretty much the same reasons. But at the same time I sometimes find myself being hit with this horrible motherly urge that like keels me over dead every time it happens (don't quote me on this). I see Helga being a lot like that, kinda secretly wanting it but being extremely reluctant. She's too soft and loving inside for it not to at least occur to her. I think she was just afraid, and still is, truly.
But Arnold was born to be a dad, okay. Born for it. We all know this. It's the most OOC thing I can possibly imagine for Arnold to not want kids, and the saddest I can imagine for him to never have them. So, I picture Arnold and Helga arguing about it for years before finally sitting down and having a mature conversation at some point during their engagement where they… agree to have one or two, several years into their marriage, when they're both ready.
The reason they have four in this fic is because I… As well as not being able to see Arnold not be a dad and believing Helga would make a great mom if she put her mind to it, I also can't see Arnold and Helga not… having a very… active sex life. Very active. Like, Walmart Supercenter active. On the teeter-totter at midnight active. In a box with a fox active.
So the first year of their marriage, Zack ended up happening—whoopsies. Ham was planned. Phil was an expired condom (that they knew was expired so they kinda left it up to fate there (and also just really wanted to do it)). And Amanda was like a drunken impulse buy on their anniversary (because it was like, we already have three, what the hell? Maybe we'll get a girl this time!). You can actually see the gradual "so done with this shit" happening, because Ham happened two years after Zack, Phil three, and Amanda four… so it was like this natural progression. By this point, since Amanda is seven, I think we can all just assume Helga got her tubes tied. Or got a boxing glove and repeatedly punched her uterus until it was no longer capable of procreation. Either one, the message is there.
Arnold and Helga's original plan was to see the world with each other and establish kickass careers before they ever had children… but stuff happened, and, well. One of the main morals I want to portray with LwtS is that life doesn't always turn out the way you planned it to and it's rarely ideal, but… that's not always a bad thing.
Yeah, so… TLDR; there's not going to be anymore kids. XD I understand this want to have as many sibling dynamics as possible, kinda cover all the bases, but I can't in good faith tack onto that. It's just not realistic to me. Four kids is pushing it. Five is throwing all logic out the window.
And… one or two is just no fun. .w.
Q – is Morris's dad Seymour?
A – Yup!
All right, gotta ask you guys… WHAT HALLOWEEN COSTUMES SHOULD THESE GUYS HAVE? I AM DRAWING BLANKS OVER HERE. PHIL'S HAS GOTTA BE REALLY REALLY SCARY, BUT IDK, IDK, WHATDOIDOWHATDOIDO
I love you all ;w; You make me want to be a better writer. Any and all forms of reviews are appreciated and hugged. As long as they're not flames. Idk when the next bit is gonna be up, 'cause there's a lot of stuff I need to catch up on, both in RL, on FF and on dA, but I'll try to get it up before Halloween… 'Try' being the operative word there. x'D
Thanks for reading, guys!
REVIEW!
