It's eight o clock, and as always, he's watching.
Chhaaaapppter four! Is here. They're making progress, wouldn't you say?
Ps. Thanks to all the people who reviewed this so thoughtfully, helping me improve and encouraging me. You're the sweetest. And to anyone else, criticism or any kind of opinion is welcome, should you feel like leaving me a line :-) I love the world today!
Enjoy
Luce
Potential
The screen flickers on, and her face draws back from it. She pulls out a sketchpad and starts drawing, pouring her (as always) angst filled thoughts (rather less than brilliantly) on paper.
She puts it down after a minute, leaning back, cheek cradled in her hand. She taps the pencil on the desktop.
Tonight is not a very exciting night.
The screen flashes. Someone is in her chat room.
"No fireworks tonight?" says the message.
She grins.
"Lucas," she types in quickly.
"And psychic. Such a talented girl."
She rolls her eyes, tossing the sketchpad aside.
"Look, I've reminded you before that I'm not deluded. I don't actually think my drawings are good. I'm not that pathetic yet."
There is a pause, where she can almost hear him chuckle.
"I don't think they're that great either," says the line that pops up on the screen.
She gasps, laughing.
"Lying asshole," she types. "You tricked me."
"Only because I wanted to improve your self esteem!!! Besides, they hired you anyway, didn't they."
She shrugs, tapping the keyboard.
"Maybe they saw potential," she writes back, and waits for a minute. The screen is blank.
"Maybe that's what I see too."
She stares at his reply for a bit, and raises her fingers to type.
But he's already logged out.
It's that time of the month again, she thinks, groaning.
Pep rally.
And if there's anything Peyton is definitely lacking, it's pep. Brooke on the other hand, has been guzzling Red Bull since breakfast and looks ready to take on the whole team, Matrix style. She's flitting around, fluffing up people's bangs, and making sure everyone's wearing spankypants under their pleated skirts (the administration insists on these mandatory checks since an incident during last fall's pep rally that one will ever forget). It's exhausting just to watch her. Peyton feels like she needs to sit down.
But Bouncing Brooke is hightailing it in her direction.
In the stands, she sees Hailey James sitting with a few other girls on the bleachers, laughing. She finds herself suddenly envious. She can't say why really. After all, Hailey and her friends as free-floaters in the social stratus, liked by everyone, never really belonging to anyone. They wouldn't be called popular exactly.
Then again, Peyton realizes, that must be a very comfortable existence.
She watches them talking earnestly, jabbing each other, laughing in a genuine and unrestrained way, oblivious to the little displays of social climbing and backbiting around them. Sighing, she spits out her gum in another girl's pompom and feels a little better.
The band is starting to play. The brass horns are making the air vibrate.
"Time to go ladies," she hears Brooke yelling, and all of a sudden they're all pouring out onto the court, cartwheeling, cheering, shaking their pompoms and other vital assets.
They split into neat rows with practiced precision.
"All you people in the stands,"
Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap-clap.
"Stand up, and clap your hands!"
The response is deafening. The bleachers shake.
"If you think you got the beat,"
More clapping.
"Stand up and stomp your feet!!!"
The floor is literally vibrating. The blue and white skirts flip and twirl, the pounding of feet echoes in unison, and suddenly the pump-it-up jock jams music comes on and the cheers break out in a mass roar at ear splitting decibels.
"How sad," thinks Peyton and half of the student body.
But she's too busy coordinating hand motions, doing handsprings and tossing up 100 pound Lila Slater. She puts a little extra force into this, wishing she could toss her high enough to splat her against the ceiling.
Then the ballplayers run out, ripping through the newsprint banner, and the Cawing erupts from the entire jock section.
"Go Ravens!!!! GOOOOOOOO RAVENS!!!'
They run in a line, holding up the poms and shaking them, that sound again like rain. The players each run through the tunnel as their name is called, and Nathan definitely takes the prize for most female screaming in the stands. Peyton is struggling to hold back a laugh.
The girls are off to one side now, spinning slowly, moving in sync, arms up, arms down, like a sort of slow hip swinging dance to the cocky big brass music which has an oldies jazz flair to it now. They're just there for eyecandy now. The team is all anyone cares about.
After all this, Brooke generously imparts some of her mom's valium to calm down all the ephedrine-amped girls so they won't be jittering in their desks the rest of the day.
Peyton admires Brooke's unselfishness and takes two, thank you very much, washed down with Diet Coke.
At lunch, they're all still in their uniforms (as required) to the pleasure or disgust of the student body. They sit amid their pompoms, chattering and giggling wildly, drinking Diet whatever, and someone's (inevitably) French braiding someone else's hair. "Paradise" thinks Peyton, chuckling morosely, chomping down on the noodle and gravy special. Lila Slater is once again staring in disgust. Or envy. Take your pick.
"Oh my God, Peyton. That is disgusting. You have noodle gravy on your chin."
Peyton grins, chomping down on the chicken patty accompanying the yellow noodly mess. Brooke winks at her quickly, and then turns towards Peyton fully with a shocked expression.
"Um, Peyton, that IS disgusting. You're putting that stuff away like there's no tomorrow."
All the cheerleaders stop to look at this impossibility; is Brooke turning against Peyton? Shocking!
"Well, Brooke, it won't have any long term effects, if you know what I mean," says Peyton nonchalantly, chugging some Coke and burping.
Brooke gasps.
Lila Slater leans forward, eyes glittering, enjoying this immensely. The cheerleaders wait with baited breath.
"Wait. Are you saying……you're on the Lila Slater diet?"
Lila is suddenly sitting straight and rigid now, cheeks pale.
"What's that, Brooke?" answers Peyton, making the line sound purposefully rehearsed.
"Why, you know, when you barf up everything you eat!!!" replies Brooke cheerfully, delivering the punch line. The table explodes in howls of laughter.
Lila Slater dumps her tray and walks off.
Peyton and Brooke are laughing, chucking cherry tomatoes at each other, while the cheerleaders shake their heads in amusement, a few of them looking extremely uncomfortable. A couple even run after Lila, but Peyton knows she's won this round again and there's nothing to fear for a while. Flushed with triumph, she turns in her seat, and that's when she catches Lucas' eye.
He's staring at her solemnly, almost remorsefully, and that hunger that she's welcomed all week suddenly disappears again. Shot down, she turns a little haughtily back in her seat, trying to regain her dignity. But she's a little nauseous now, and really doesn't understand how she could've possibly been enjoying the gray heap on her place.
She hates that she even cares about what he thinks.
She wishes she could go over there and ruin his lunch right back.
"Have you always been so mean?"
They are walking along the river on the cobblestone street, and the day is slowly turning into dusk. There is a sharp autumn chill in the air, and the falling leaves circle them and rush off in the wind, dropping lifeless by their feet. His face is rather odd, a strange expression she hasn't seen before. They were talking about something else, something light and non-controversial before he burst in with this little dose of reality. She avoids his eyes, wanting to say something mean, but there's something inside her throat that tightens and the words come out of her mouth before she can stop them.
"No," she whispers, and she hides her stinging eyes.
All of a sudden she feels so disgusting, wondering what he thinks of her, and she hates him for being so good and so right all of the time.
She wants to push him away, to genuinely hate him for this but she needs him around too much. She tries to swallow her pride.
But she's sniffling now, and stunned, he stops her and puts his hands on her shoulders.
On the river, a chill wind blows. The sky is purple and lavender tinged with pale layers of blue, dropping into a velvety dark on the horizon. Her hair hangs in her face, masking her eyes.
"Peyton, no don't cry I'm so sorry please I didn't mean to make you…look I didn't mean to sound like that, c'mon give me a break I don't know what to do when girls cry," he rambles, feeling horrible all of a sudden. He's aware of the fact she feels guilty enough without Lucas the Saint pointing out her fallacies.
She crosses her arms tight against her stomach, wiping at her nose, then sullenly looking down.
"Easy for you to say who's never had to fight for survival against Lila Slater every day of your life, since we were in grade school. Bet you've never been called a slut by the Christian Coalition homecoming queen."
Her words are raw and forceful but also private and revealing. She's never extended this kind of invitation to him before, to be part of her life, to understand her.
He wants to reply, to reassure her, but before he can speak she's already taken off down the street, towards her car, away from him.
It's evening.
She opens her webcam room, and tonight he's there, and he's sent her a little message. It's a picture of a very depressed looking mutt with jowls hanging down to the ground, declaring "I've been a dog to you." She tries not to smile, but it really is kinda cute.
Her smile fades away.
"My name is Peyton," she whispers again, like that first night. "You wanna really see Peyton? You like Peyton? Have Peyton. Everybody else already has. Don't lie to yourself."
Stepping up gently to the camera, she slowly takes her shirt off, sliding it over her long arms. In his room, he winces at the sharpness of her collarbones.
She's slowly unsnapping her bra.
He logs off immediately, quickly sending a message.
All it says is Don't.
She's trembling in front of the screen. She's throwing herself at him and he doesn't want her because she is a common slut. "This is Peyton," she repeats, before throwing herself on the bed, crying like a child having a temper tantrum, pounding the pillows, kicking her feet, yelling I hate you!!!!!! Again and again.
When she gets up, feeling stupid, she wipes the tears from her eyes and looks up at the screen again.
There' s another message from him there.
All it says is , "This is not Peyton."
She's still crying now, but she's smiling too, some weird form of hysterics. Half sobbing, half hiccupping, trying to smile, she kisses her fingers and presses them to the screen, and then it goes black.