The Royal Guardian
By: Sokai
Disclaimer: I, Sokai, do not claim ownership to the workings of W.I.T.C.H. -- I leave that honor up to Elisabetta Gnone. Nor do I own Meg Cabot's "The Princess Diaries" series (even though this story isn't even really related to the series. Just don't want to hear law suit claims LoL). However, I can and DO claim to own this story and its inspired ideas FROM said series.
Note: Wooo hoo!! Two updates in one day (kinda one day, anyway)! :Dances: AND this one's supremely longer than the previous chapter, too! ANNND Will/Caleb focused, to boot!
So, enjoy this lil' treat, my dears, which I guess can be constituted as some sort of Halloween treat, in turn. LoL
This chapter was created/written in October 2009.
Chapter Forty Eight
Friday, November 10th, English
Weirdest.
Yep.
Absolutely one of, if not the weirdest school periods I've ever experienced at this particular school . . . or ever, really.
I mean, what do you say to what had transpired back in fourth period, during the rest of study hall??
What are the words to describe such an occurrence??
Oh, right.
"Weirdest."
And I've now more than enough words to find and say to describe it, as well, now that I've had a period in between to recover from its awkwardness.
. . . . Still weird, though.
Okay, okay! I'll stop not making any sense (which I'm getting to be really good at in here, fair journal).
Well, the previous entry I had closed it off by writing how I saw Caleb, of all possible people, was heading over to my table, right?
Yeah, well, he really was, which is why I had to stop the entry there.
What do you expect?? I don't let anyone, not even one of the girls see, let alone know that this journal exists. You really think I'd let my ex-"Means More Than the World to Me" catch even a glimpse??
Nooo, no no.
Which is why I got so flustered, and ended up scrambling to quickly shove it into the dark recesses of my shoulder bag . . . which, in turn, caused the majority of my scattered papers and notebooks I'd taken out upon arriving into the cafeteria onto the floor.
Score one for me in looking suave, cool and collected, there.
I mean, just because I'm doing my best to shut Caleb out of my heart now, it doesn't mean that I want to continue looking like a complete loon in front of him, either.
Not to mention that my multiple "fans," who had been present at the time (and when are they not??), most likely saw it all from where they were each seated at their own tables, thus adding to the furthered embarrassment.
I really should seriously look into that being homeschooled idea, for sure. . . .
Sigh.
Anyhow, so now, I'm busy trying to pick up all of my crap, while Caleb continues on his merry way over to me for God only knows why, and while Nova and Ernest just stand there, at their usual, decided "posts" near one of the cafeteria doors closest to me.
I mean, I know that I usually want them to be as far away from me as possible, and to interfere or intervene so little that it's almost like they're not even there with me. But, just a tiny bit of assistance in scooping up my disheveled belongings, before my former "love" got too close would have been nice!
They always tend to freak out at times, if someone near me just sneezes, after all.
But, I guess their presumably continued tummy aches I had written about within the previous entry must have distracted them too much.
Especially since they also just let Caleb approach me freely, talk to and sit with me at the table as he later did, no trouble.
Figures.
So, okay.
I'm still on the floor, picking up my things, I will say yet again, and just managed to finish doing so (well, disregarding a few crumpled up pieces of paper that were near me, seeing as I'd figured that they'd probably been left behind by people from the previous periods), just as Caleb had bent over and picked up two of my sheets and a notebook from behind me.
So, correction, then: I had thought that I had just managed to finish doing so (picking up everything which had belonged to me).
And even though it was just sheets of my stupid math homework, in addition to my Public Speaking notebook (which just had to "conveniently" been opened to my latest page, regarding my outline and beginnings to the rough draft of my ten minute speech), I was still mortified.
I don't know.
Something about someone you're trying to get over knowing or having any sort of insight into your mind (or, lack thereof in the case of my math homework, anyway, which made it all the more deplorable) just doesn't do.
Probably because it'd spell further emotional disaster if it turned out that they thought you were immensely stupid.
And I, at this point in the game (a.k.a. My life), both I and my fragile psyche just do not need that right now.
So, here I am, forcing myself to remain calm, while ever so slowly sliding back onto my seat with my junk back onto the table and looking like a renewed pile of perhaps an even greater mess, and refusing to look Caleb in the eye.
As though I ever honestly could beforehand, anyway.
You know, back when I was deliriously "obsessed" with him. Well, not for long periods of time, at least. So now, in light of my stumblebum moment a few seconds ago, in addition to the newfound revelation that he is now officially "a man," thanks to his hot stuff girlfriend, there is just no way.
I'm liable to scream, hit the guy, cry, or puke my guts out if I did.
Or, knowing me and my lately erratic mood swings lately, quite possibly all of the above.
However, while I may not have been able to look up at the tall brunet quite yet, even actually trying to pretend that I didn't even know he was there, I definitely could feel his hot gaze practically burning into me.
". . . . Um . . . g-good morning, Princess; would it be all right if I took a seat with you?" is what I suddenly hear Caleb utter after what felt like an eon, a bit quietly and . . . I don't really want to say intensely. More like . . . "concentrated," as though he were making certain not to say anything that would offend me or whatever.
I don't know. It was just weird. (There's that word again.)
So, still a bit flustered over my previous (and sadly, frequent) clumsy attack, I could only make a small, but still noticeable gesture with my hand to let Caleb know it was all right to proceed.
Well, it honestly wasn't all right, but it also wasn't everyday he'd come over to me during study hall . . . or, any other time, really.
So, sue me.
My curiosity was slightly piqued at that moment.
The guy places my notebook and papers back onto the table and sits down, thankfully across from me, I can manage to slightly see even with my eyes calculatingly downcast, and then clears his throat before continuing on.
"Um . . . thank you, Your Highness," Caleb starts just as quietly as before, but a little less "intense . . ." er, "concentrated." He's just lucky I was still within a slight daze at that moment, that I didn't bite his head off for continuing to "honor" me with the ever annoying royal titles, there. . . .
And then, there was just . . . silence.
Seriously.
What is with us and the ever loving silence all the time??
I mean, I know that it's just always been our "thing," since really the start of my whole Guardian career. And, you know, also the fact that we virtually know diddily squat about one another, and so, like I'd said once before, I believe, if it doesn't have to do with Elyon and her world, we don't honestly say anything directly to one another.
Hmm . . . makes me truthfully wonder how I could be so in love with the man, otherwise, then.
Ah!! I mean could have been! Could have! Past tense, past tense!
Blug . . . .
Um . . . what was my point to my rambling (as though there ever really is), again??
Oh! Right!
The silence. . . . . . . .
It's starting to get a little . . . not creepy, but a bit disconcerting, here.
Like, is there really nothing at all, which you couldn't think to bring up as some sort of makeshift conversation, buddy??
I know he can't honestly be that boring, given that he has, from what I can tell, anyway, a fair decent amount of friends outside of the Guardian and Metamoor "circle."
Of course, granted, to be fair, I could say the same for myself.
Ya know, thinking of something to say, as well. But, this really isn't about me, so moving on.
Boy, it's kind of "funny," if you will, the things you start to notice about a person, once the haze has begun to lift and the rose-colored glasses have been removed.
I wonder what else about Mr. Caleb "Virgilio" and his "habits," I guess you can say, while in my presence, I'll begin to notice, as well.
Hmm. . . .
Well, anyway, in the meantime, back to the present. Er, past but is the present for you, journal, which is . . . or was study hall.
Ahh! Whatever!
I need a vacation, seriously.
So, Caleb and I are now seated together, very uncomfortably so (at least, in my opinion, anyway), and practically suffocating through all of the gotdanged absence of sound neither one of us seems to ever be capable of making while in the other's presence.
And for that reason alone (that, and because, prior to starting to write my other entry, I had been on an honest roll with my Public Speaking speech, I think, anyway, and didn't want to lose that miraculous momentum), I actually took the first plunge.
Still didn't, or couldn't, rather, look at him, but hey.
It was a start.
". . . . Is . . . there something you wanted, Caleb? T-That is, I don't . . . mean to sound rude or anything, here, but . . . you've never come to . . . sit with me ever before," I remarked with a small sigh, while struggling very hard to bite back my disgust and disappointment that he was no longer a virgin, and that I regrettably knew this. And then, I'd realized that my voice had totally gotten softer, there, right when I reflected upon the undeniable fact that, no, Caleb never has come to sit with me for anything, really, and not just for classes, only.
Well, not counting this class I'm presently in, English, and the whole having to share the book we're reading in class with me.
But, one, he technically was never sitting with me, but merely still within his own seat, at his own desk, and just moved a tiny bit closer to mine. And then, two, that's long over with now, anyway, seeing as he's been having his book back to use for himself.
It just merely sucked that yeah, okay, I was honestly a bit sad by this fact, and, moreover, that we've honestly never truly acted as the "friends" we at least could have and should have been by this point, if nothing else (or more than . . . bleh).
And it also, more so sucked that I just had to let it slip and more or less show in front of him.
Honestly.
I'm seriously starting to experience massive epiphanies, here, the more I continue on in this entry, over perhaps precisely why Caleb and I had been doomed from the start, and why he's never noticed me "in that way" the entire time he's known of my existence.
Well, how could he have, if he doesn't even know me, isn't even my friend, and majority of the time finds it painstakingly difficult to dream up more than a full sentence, if he's lucky, when speaking to me??
Geez.
What the Hell was I even smoking, thinking that it ever could have been possible between us, even for a moment's worth??
¡Ay, Chihuahua.
I am a flippin' loser.
A borderline psychotic, lonely, absolutely stressed and delusional loser. . . .
Ah, well!
That's tomorrow's problem, I suppose.
One (never ending) issue at a time, for now, please.
So, after I said what I'd said, I think I'm gonna have to wait ages for a reply, since, as I've already stated, when it comes to Caleb, or rather, myself, he's not exactly spry, so to speak. I also could only imagine his facial expression right then, seeing as I then began to pretend to be immersed within one of the sheets of paper I'd at that moment randomly pulled from out of the chaotic pile I'd pushed to the side.
It was just the stupid syllabus to my Economics class, which made my head begin to hurt (as I'd idly read each section Mr. Tucci had already taught, and would begin to in the very near future), because it made me think of the project I have yet to begin for his class, as well.
So, I really didn't need Caleb and his being there, sat ridiculously too close to me (even if it was still across the circular shaped table, which was, in all honesty, not a very big one, at that) and thus distracting me right then.
I had serious work to do, if I didn't want to quite possibly become the first princess in history, due to failure, to be held back a grade, or something.
And I was just about to reopen my mouth and tell him something along those lines (sort of, anyway), when Caleb finally spoke.
Well, not really "finally," as it was actually a lot more swift than his other responses of the past, considering.
He goes, "Well . . . I suppose that is true, Princess Will -- About our never having previously sat together in this study hall, before, I mean. Honestly, half of the time, I'll forget that you're even in here with me. . . ."
Okay.
Wow.
Like I really needed a reminder, or to hear that so soon, while I'm still trying to get over the guy, thanks.
Of course you never realize I'm here, Caleb! When have you ever??
Ugh.
Men.
I was just about to most likely rail into him for that, and abuse my "royalness," in order to command him to go away and he'd most likely would have complied (being so "respectful" to royalty, and all), when he quickly continued, almost as though he'd never even said what he had at all.
That, or the more likely culprit, that he didn't freaking care.
"But, you see . . . well, since you are here and all, and. . . . Okay, well, obviously, I'm sure Ms. Wojick has, by now, spoken to you and told you about how she'd like you to . . . 'tutor' me with my poetry, right?" the green eyed devil asked me with slight hesitance, and what honestly sounded like faint abashment at first. That is, until it immediately gave way to the blatant (and definitely unappreciated) skepticism then effortlessly suffusing itself into his deep, but still slightly boyish sounding voice.
A voice which usually would make me go weak in the knees to listen to, for that very reason (the whole "I'm just about done with puberty, but still have managed to retain the cute and adorable lightness of my previous youth" thing it does), but now I just wanted to kick in with my foot.
I mean, really!
I know that I didn't and still don't want to tutor Caleb, let alone anyone, for that matter. But did he have to sound so doubtful that I could actually accomplish such a "feat????"
That was when, ladies and gentlemen, I'd finally seemed to completely forget all about my desire not to look at him at all costs, and proceeded to gaze directly into his suddenly surprised looking emerald gems.
I guess all he has to do is piss me off every time we see each other from now on, and that should do the trick, then.
"Yes, she did, actually. And why sound so cynical about it?? Do I really seem that incapable of being able to help someone with their poetry??" I found myself practically barking at the dude before I could stop myself, my Economics syllabus sheet and the stress of its attached project assignment effortlessly forgotten.
I expected Caleb to become just as irritated at that moment (as is his usual reaction, I've managed to witness, whenever anyone -- Especially his woman, would get in his face, either for no reason or otherwise), but I didn't care.
I was silently thinking to myself, Ohh, please, bring it on. I need the excuse to properly vent all of my frustrations about you to your face, for once!
And he'd honestly did do as I'd thought, what with the small, but nonetheless visible frown beginning to etch itself onto his tawny (and ridiculously handsome -- Damn you!!) face for a few moments.
But then, he did the craziest, most unexpected thing.
. . . . He smiled.
Yeah, I know.
Definitely "what the eff??" worthy.
Especially since he's never in his life (well, you know, since being and living here on Earth, and more or less joining the Guardian clique) ever once done so towards me, of all people.
To me.
At me.
Granted, it was a bit on the "eww, please stop that, because I'm liable to run for my life in terror!" side, given the current circumstances, and the aforementioned pre-existing one.
I mean, I just basically snapped at you, and all you can do is smile at that??
Super weird. (Annnd yet again, folks. I'm telling you, that word just fits!)
Anyway, so, because of this bizarre occurrence, I'm stuck being flustered all over again and, like a reject, end up stammering out, ". . . . W-W-What??"
Sigh.
Never ends.
And as though that wasn't enough, I could then begin to feel myself starting to freaking blush for it, and especially did even harder, once Caleb revealed a pretty valid point within his reply.
He's all, ". . . . No? On the contrary, actually, Princess. According to Ms. W., you're pretty 'well versed' when it comes to poetry, or writing, for that matter. Seems to be the case, based upon that pretty insightful response you'd given the other day, during our Tuesdays with Morrie group work. . . . Anyway, to put it bluntly, our teacher seems to have a lot of confidence in you -- Not to mention, it isn't really as though either of us has much of a choice upon this matter -- and so, I'm just going to have to go with the flow. . . ."
"Go with the flow??"
Easy for him to say.
He isn't the one still partially afflicted with the once undying adoration for specific person of the opposite sex, and then unfortunately became forced to work with them.
And then, geez.
Did Ms. Wojick have to go and tell Caleb, of all human beings, all of those mushy-gushy and praising compliments about my so called knack for writing??
If I didn't know any better, I'd say that she's doing this on purpose. . . .
So, now, I'm stuck blushing like mad because of this and left without anything to say, sadly, while wishing Caleb could just go back to his not noticing me as per usual, okay? And then, as though having momentarily forgotten, adds this as some sort of afterthought, "Oh. And what I meant with my other comment earlier, was merely the fact that, well, in my opinion, anyway, you can't honestly teach someone how to write poetry. . . . Well, of course, there's the whole skeletal mechanisms and such, I suppose . . . the different styles and the like. Haiku, free verse, limerick, etcetera. . . . But, that's all technical. What eventually ends up onto the paper . . . it can't be taught or explained. It just all . . . comes from here. . . ."
I looked up in time (because my unfortunate bouts of flabbergast had promptly caused me to look away from the lad, of course) to see Caleb slowly, but gently rest a strong palm over the left side of his chest . . . his heart.
And that act, that sight, coupled by his unexpected (as well as very uncharacteristic) . . . emotional "rawness," as it were, over a matter which hadn't to do with smashing some otherworldly enemy's face in with one of his patented roundhouse kicks, and. . . .
Yeah.
It certainly bowled me over, for sure, to the point of even having my mouth just slightly open agape for a few seconds . . . unfortunately.
And then, once more, Caleb succeeded in surprising me all over again, with what he'd done next.
He laughed.
Okay, so it certainly wasn't one of those boisterous ones I'll sometimes witness him do with his compadres, either over here on Earth or back in Metamoor, no. It was more like a barely audible . . . not even really a "chuckle," I would call it.
It was just a sound, which, in my opinion, I guess just closely resembled a backwards sort of laugh, all right??
". . . . What is it? Oh . . . I guess hearing stuff like that coming from the planetary alien, who was once so very foreign to the ways and customs of this particular planet might be a bit odd, yeah," the ex-Rebel Leader remarked within a discreet whisper, most likely out of habit, just in case anyone may happen to eavesdrop upon this slightly Guardian-like matter.
And being that I'm Miss Popular now, the chances were highly probable.
In any event, Caleb continued on, his voice raised a bit higher, now.
"But, I have been living here for a few years, now, after all -- Not to mention been climbing up through your guys' scholastic ladder a bit successfully, despite my personal background, as well, so. . . ." he suddenly trailed off, as though he had at last finally run out of things to say (which, had that been the case, would not have surprised me. It was the opposite, his having spoken this much and for this long at all, which continued to catch me off guard).
Feeling myself gradually getting over the previous shock and awkwardness of what the guy had uttered, all about poetry, moments before, I slowly closed my mouth before clearing my throat.
I then began to feel as though I needed to be doing something with my hands -- Anything.
Something to further distract myself from those words continuing to echo within my head, and the quite obvious fact that the owner to them was still seated relatively close to me.
So, I'd promptly reached for my previously discarded pencil, and began to gently swing it back and forth in between the thumb and index finger of my right hand, as I usually tend to do whenever either bored during one of my classes, or stumped upon a useless math problem.
I even took another chance and looked back up at him. Granted, it wasn't directly into his wickedly marvelous green eyes, no, but at his left cheek, instead.
But, who cares?
"Uhhh . . . huh," I began with a breathy sort of air, stretching out the "uhh" almost in emphasis, over my utter perplexity over what was continually unfolding before me. "So . . . then, that being the case and all . . . why exactly would you need . . . 'assistance' on your poetry, being that you seem to be quite the expert, based upon all that you'd just said??"
Caleb seemed to begin to relax (which is kind of backwards to say, or rather, write, considering I thought that I had been the only one feeling awkward and uncomfortable throughout this entire conversation, thanks), as he then suddenly leaned to his right and rested his head against the balled up fist he had, at that moment, made, before giving a slight shrug.
Even his "always super straight and never once lazy" (that I've always witnessed, at least) posture actually declined just ever so slightly, I could see.
I started thinking to myself, What is with this guy, today?? Apparently, all that he'd needed this entire time of residing here on Earth was some 'booty' to make him significantly less uptight, or something??
And then, of course, I'd immediately silently scolded my brain for going there, when it was neither needed nor desired, at that, or any other given time, thank you very much.
Still, though: What was with him?
I forced myself to hurriedly reason that it was merely because we were discussing a topic he'd blatantly found at least interesting, if not fun, that he was suddenly able to find himself capable of speaking with me for more than eight seconds.
And I did this, while also biting down pretty hard onto my tongue to prevent myself from screaming in disgusted frustration at my mind's previously stupid thought.
All of this, while trying my best to continue listening to poor, unsuspecting Caleb (whom, if he had been aware, would most likely only laugh once more, and say something insensitive like, "When you, too, finally shack up with someone -- And I do mean, 'finally,' then you'll properly understand, Your Highness").
". . . . Well, I don't really know, exactly. I mean, I don't pretend to act as though I'm some 'expert' at writing poetry, as you'd just said -- What with Ms. Wojick's feeling that I needed help proving just that. But, after a few rocky starts of trying to both understand as well as get the hang of it, thinking less and . . . I guess, feeling more, writing a couple poems here and there wasn't so hard, anymore, Princess," Caleb thoughtfully revealed, while gazing uninterestedly at his own textbooks and notebooks that he had placed upon his side of the little table. He then, as though suddenly realizing a mistake he had made or whatever, promptly readjusted his posture and placed his hand away from his face.
I'm guessing it was most likely due to the fact that he'd just once again finished calling me a blasted "Princess," and thus, re-remembering or something, so to speak, his manners.
Whatever.
Whether it be him, an actual friend, the President of the United States, or the Pope, himself, I couldn't care less about proper etiquette that needed to be exhibited while within my company.
But I didn't bother to let Caleb know this, as I knew it, like so many other matters relating to him (of the personal nature, that is), would simply be moot.
So, while merely pretending as though I hadn't caught that, I just nodded my head in understanding, before murmuring a soft "Mmhmm," with a sort of question-like tone lingering at the end of it, so he'd know that he could continue.
And that, he did.
". . . . Y-Yeah, well . . . I guess what I've been handing in lately, either as assignments, or within that class journal she makes us keep, hasn't exactly been 'great' to Ms. W., because, besides some of the little side comments she'd leave on some of them after handing them back as an indication, she'd finally pulled me aside last week and . . . told me that she was worried about me," the brunet told me with a quick, but still catchable roll of his eyes as he'd then looked away from me, apparently not agreeing with our shared teacher's sentiments or beliefs. "Yeah . . . that, as she'd put it, 'lately, you've seemed to have lost that . . . that spark, or muse, even, that had fueled your inspiration where your poetry is concerned. . . .' And then, the next thing I know, she's . . . well, you obviously know the rest, Your Highness. . . ."
I could only raise the both of my eyebrows upon finished listening to the rest of Caleb's "colorful" story, as I didn't know what to say for any of it.
But, it does at least sound like Ms. Wojick really honestly seems to care a great deal for each of her students, judging by what she'd apparently said to Caleb, and then, of course, to me the other day, as well.
Makes me like her even more, really.
Ya know, despite the fact that she's making me work with this guy, and all.
Finally, after a few moments of honestly elapsed, you've got it, silence, I go, "Um . . . all right, then. Sooo . . . I guess I should probably . . . I don't know, look at some of your past poems, up to now, or something, and maybe give . . . an opinion of some sort?? I mean, I don't . . . I'm not really sure how, exactly, to 'tutor' you -- Or anyone, really, on something like this, mainly for all the reasons you'd previously stated. . . ."
I would have honestly felt pretty retarded right then, over my virtually rambling incoherently, there, except that I was at that moment forcibly shifting my brain into "no nonsense; time for business" mode. Almost the sort of identical mentality I tend to take whenever dealing with Guardian affairs.
It seemed to help, and he seemed to sense it, I think, because Caleb merely gave a small nod before opening up the glossy, black colored folder resting previously unattended before him, and pulled out a few sheets of paper.
And so, for the remainder of that specific period, I ended up reading a total of six of Caleb's poems (What a weird sentence to write, there, by the way: "Caleb's poems." Ah! See?? "Weird." That's like, the ninth time, now!), which surprised me that he honestly let me do so.
But, then again, based upon what he had written for most of them, there really wasn't anything "oooh, oh my God! Don't read it!" about them, anyway. You know, given that the majority had been for past assignments, with a few attached guidelines that all of us in that class had to abide by at that time, anyhow.
And I wouldn't say that they were . . . boring, or weren't any good, either. Because they were (good, I mean. Or, at least, good enough, anyway), from what I could tell.
A lot better than what I'd always envisioned Mr. Big Shot, "Rarr! Me smash! You go bang and die!" ex-Rebel Leader could possibly come up with, at least.
They were just English class assigned poems, none of which were Nobel Prize winning worthy, no, but still quite insightful, nonetheless.
And I was about to tell him so, when I'd noticed, within the corner of my eye, another poem, left unattended and mostly hanging out of the one side of the two flaps inside of Caleb's still opened English folder. He was, the entire time I was preoccupied with reading his past poetry and verbally giving little comments to each here and there, otherwise busy writing his "I Am" poem, as he'd informed me he'd attempt to do in the meantime.
So, thankfully, he didn't seem to notice me noticing his belongings in the nosy little way I was blatantly doing right then, what with his brown colored, ruffled mopped head being tilted downwards as he continued to, slowly, but surely, work upon his latest assigned poem.
I don't even really know why I'd felt so compelled to take a gander at this particular poem, and after having managed to read it without a hitch, I still don't know why (mainly because I don't honestly understand its overall meaning).
But, something inside of me just said, "Hey, go for it! It's hanging out there like that, and practically begging to be read, too!", even though Caleb obviously didn't feel it so important to be looked over by me like the others, as well, seeing as he hadn't personally handed it to me.
Or, maybe he hadn't honestly realized that he hadn't given it to me yet. I mean, he did just sort of hurriedly hand me his small collection of poetry, and this particular one was apparently at the very back of his folder.
So, it's quite possible it had merely been left behind by mistake.
Either way, I wanted to read it for whatever reason, and again, for whatever reason, certainly wasn't going to alert him of that fact.
And so, while pretending to merely be lifting up one of his latest poems I had been previously beginning to read at eye level for better comfort, I in reality used the sheet of paper as cover, while averting my eyes away from it and onto the curious poem resting upon the table.
Apparently, my brain had found it to be so "interesting," as it were, that I actually kind of have it memorized . . . I think.
I don't know.
I may end up writing some parts to it wrong in here, but oh well.
Here's what Caleb had written:
To Crimson from Golden
By Caleb Virgilio
Once upon a dream I will see her there,
A statuesque beauty with hair so fair
With eyes so cool, as a cerulean night,
And skin so pale, as a new day's light.
-
She is the Goddess, who governs all life,
So grand and just be her unparalleled might.
She is the one wherein my heart resides,
Never shall it once desire that it divide. . . .
-
O, alas, I must wonder what befalling is this
That curiously, such dreams have gone to the abyss?
Dreams that are simple, dreams that are pure,
Have now left me feeling so jarred and unsure.
-
Try as I might, I cannot understand
What foul trickery that perhaps is at hand
Is it pure madness, one that's unspoken
To turn these dreams . . . to crimson from golden?
. . . . Again, I have no clue what this basically cryptic poem is about, or even when Caleb had written it or might have handed it in (since there, duh, isn't a date on it, and no familiar scripted red ink marks or comments from Ms. Wojick scrawled anywhere on it).
But, it could've just been an old rough draft of whatever final copy he might have turned in for a grade at some point.
Either way, talk about a strange poem. . . .
I mean, what with all this talk about "golden" and "crimson," and dreaming and . . . I don't know.
Just plain strange, I tells ya.
It wasn't badly written, though, with lots of emotional insight (well, I suppose so, anyway, since, again, I don't understand the poem's overall meaning, let alone topic).
Definitely a lotttt better than the other six poems I had read, put together, for sure.
It's just . . . strange.
Great. Now I'm starting to say "strange," over and over!
Ugh.
Add one more to the list, then, because it's stranger still to me, that I even felt compelled to read it at all, to the point of basic memorization.
Why did I??
Hmm. . . .
Well, I'm sure I'll forget all about it pretty soon, regardless, especially since I'm never planning on asking Caleb to explain it, as I'd already said.
To be fair, I shouldn't really be surprised that it didn't make much sense, his poem, seeing as the author is quite the enigma, himself, anyhow.
But . . . yeah.
Anyway. . . .
So . . . that was that. I guess.
I don't know.
I mean, after moving on from having read that "dreamy yellow-red" poem of Caleb's, and then promptly cleared my throat to get his attention in order to discuss the one I'd had in my hand (and was supposed to be reading), I'd managed to fit in a few more comments on what I thought he might have been going for and trying to convey in that specific poem, before the bell had suddenly rang.
And not a moment too soon, I think.
Well, granted, I thankfully had things to keep me preoccupied (a.k.a. Caleb's poetry) from the fact that I was still continually stuck within pretty much super close proximity to him. And, because of that fact (having the poems, I mean), it had made it a bit more bearable.
That, and my brain was still in "business" mode, right until the end of the period.
Still.
One sitting type of session with my former flame, or, would/could/should have been my former (official, in the "I actually dated you" sense) flame is quite enough for now.
Even if it had only luckily been for less than twenty-two minutes.
Imagine if it had been a regular, full period school day??
Dead.
I really don't know why I'd used to crave for such an occurrence in the past.
I mean, really.
They're always so awkward and . . . yes, I'm gonna say for the billionth time, now:
Weird.
But, anyway, like it honestly mattered, when I think on it now, seeing as that was fourth period, and, as always, I would just be seeing him again within the following period (and again, for this current one, English) for lunchtime.
So, talk about a "breather," of sorts, there.
Regardless, I began to pack up my things and decidedly hang back a bit, in order to give Caleb a head start towards the other cafeteria, where we habitually ate our lunches together.
Well, not together, together, but you get me.
But, instead of immediately bolting off and out of the doors as I will usually witness him doing during this shared period (mainly so that he could catch up to his beloved girlfriend, Cornelia, in order to properly escort her to their little precious luncheon together), he, too, hangs back for a minute, and stares at me.
I, of course, hadn't honestly yet taken notice of this, due to purposefully busying myself with my things, so that I hopefully wouldn't be further addressed by the guy. But after a few seconds, I began to feel someone watching me (I mean, you know, beyond the usual amount of eight hundred I now receive from both familiar as well as random eyes of the fellow student populace), and so looked up.
And there he is, looking at me with this, "I can wait until she's finished before I speak" sort of look. At least, it had been, before Caleb saw that I'd finally noticed him watching, and then blinked a couple of times before stating (with a slight frown, which confused me, because it's like, is he honestly upset by what he's about to say, or what), ". . . . Th . . . thank you, Your Highness, for your . . . pretty useful insight regarding my poetry."
And then, of all things he could have done, he bowed!!
Caleb.
Caleb, of all freaking people, just bowed towards me.
I mean, yes, technically, he's already done it before, during that time we'd spoken on the staircase near our English class, about going to visit Elyon after school that particular day.
But that had been kinda sorta "private."
Well, more private than this one had been, anyway, that's for freaking sure.
The first time hadn't been in front of a bigger "audience," practically within the center of the room, and hadn't been done at a much slower pace as this one!
And also, this one was like, I don't know. Almost somber, yet almost sort of mocking, in a way, the way Caleb had done it, too.
And then, before I could even say a word, he's already off, leaving to go retrieve his future wife and forget all about me . . . which he seemed to do precisely that, seeing as he never said a word to me during the entire lunch period about our "poetry session."
Or, a word to me, period, actually (and neither did Cornelia, actually. Well, nothing outside talk about the "crazy snowstorm we got smashed with," or things related to Elyon within a fleetingly discreet sort of way, so's Nova and Ernest would continue to be none the wiser over it. I would have been more "concerned" as to why she wasn't barreling into me for one thing or another, but then recalled that she, too, would have to be within a much better mood, now that, if you please, she had newly been "deflowered. . . ." Gross).
Asssss per flippin' usual, folks.
Argh!!
Will that young man ever cease in confusing the ever loving piss straight out of me????
And will I ever stop caring that he continues to do so??
Arggghhh, again!
Just . . . weird.
Seriously.
It's all I can honestly say about that entire freaking period.
Just plain weird. . . .
-- End of Chapter Forty-Eight
(A.N. Yayyyy, c'est fini!! Woo! :Dances: You don't know HOW long I've wanted to actually sit down to write this and then get it out to yooze guys. LoL I've had it in my mind for soooo many months now, with its outline, just like all the other chapters, written well in advance. But I couldn't have written it down until I'd first written the other chapters. Otherwise, "timeline" wise, it wouldn't have been as organic for me when I finally sat down to write it. Ya know, each chapter I write, all of the emotions I write Will or other characters exhibiting I, too, am feeling – Hence, it usually being so believable to you guys to read. So, if I'd written this chapter while still having the ones before it still trapped within my mind and not yet written, themselves, everything would've just gotten messed up. LoL And I'm crazy enough as it is – I don't need further incentive, here. LoL But, yeah! Chapter forty-eight, people! Much longer than its predecessor, far more easy to pop out and in one sitting, to boot – Again, because I was itching to do so in the first place, annnnnd filled with oodles and oodles of Will/Caleb…"WEIRD"-ness. See, now I'M saying it. Thanks, Will. LoL I'll leave everything that'd happened in it up to your guys' interpretation and not even comment on it, so yeah. This is the first time I didn't write a lunch scene, and they're usually one of my faves to do, too. LoL But given that Corny still "hates" Will or hates ON her, or whatever, 'Ranee's pretty much tired of playing mediator for the two of them for it, and Caleb's gone back to being his mute, backwards self, there really wasn't much to write about it. Except that it sucked for her. LoL Anyway! Still hope you'd all enjoyed it, leave lots of lovely little reviews, and stay tuned for more! Especially since the next chapter will be just as "fun," with a little teeny tiny bit more of Will/Caleb-ness. Yay! HeHe Oh, and yes, Caleb's poem was written by me, before someone asks. It ain't perfect, no, but it ain't supposed to be. It WAS technically written by a teenager, after all. Him, not me. LoL But not to say teenagers are incapable of writing superb poetry, either, no. Just saying. Bleh! Whatever! It's mine, okay? LoL)
